Blackwood Falls
by ShadowGuard23
Summary: Three months have passed since the night on Mt Washington, and everything seems to have fallen apart. Mike is charged with Emily's attempted murder, war has broken out, and the Wendigo forgotten. But when the worst seems inevitable, a mysterious man approaches the survivors to demand the impossible for deliverance. To return to the mountain, and confront the curse, one last time.
1. Prologue

An advanced warning from the author: to all you canon fans, be advised that this story entails far more than just the supernatural. Oh, we are diving into warfare, science fiction and all other manners of madness here, and I am aware that that may not be everybody's cup of tea, hence the warning, but if you don't mind a healthy does of welding another layer to the world of horror, then by all means, strap in for the ride, and let me know what you think. Set following the 'everyone survives' ending, but with different events have shaped the world since dawn broke.

* * *

' _Zero contacts front. Advancing to structure.'_

' _This is Rearguard, no contacts. We're clear.'_

' _Shade Three, Shade Three, drop back; you're advancing past the line.'_

' _Shade Three copies, holding position.'_

' _Overwatch, be advised, no movement on the ground. Overwatch, acknowledge. Damnit, Vars, get me runner. Put us back in contact with the Hunters.'_

' _Be advised, Viper One, we have reached the target. No hostiles. Acknowledge.'_

' _Understood, Shade One, you have authorisation to proceed. Clear the structure.'_

' _Acknowledged.'_

' _Viper, be advised, motion contact, three hundred meters from CP. Bearing 087._

' _Get me eyes, Rearguard.'_

' _Understood. Probably a bear.'_

' _Moving too fast for a bear, Rearguard.'_

' _Wolf?'_

' _Negative, Viper. No visual as of yet.'_

' _Viper, this is Shade. There's something out here.'_

' _Identify?'_

' _Something, right there. Irinus, can you-'_

 _/Recording malfunction: Heavy static and interference. Possible screams and gunfire./_

' _Shade, respond? Damnit, Vars, get a response team out there-'_

' _Rearguard to Viper, be advised, multiple contacts! Back to the line! Open fire, open fire!'_

' _This is Viper to all teams, to arms! We are under attack! May He watch over us all-'_

 _/Recording terminated: Critical damage to audio receptors./_

 _Damaged audio log recovered from Blackwood Pines, by [REDACTED], one day after loss of contact. Seven assets unaccounted for. Three survivors._

* * *

Three months had passed since the destruction of the the Washingtons' property atop Blackwood Mountain, and progress was still to be seen. In fact, Mike thought as he screwed his eyes shut once again, it had probably written him off as a lost hope, and bounded away in search of more promising applicants.

It was only the touch of sunlight upon his eyelids that finally allowed him to awaken after another hideous night; too many times had he woken up screaming to find a silhouette in his face, seeing a corpse, peering into his terrified soul, before realising it was only a curtain at an odd angle, and the strain had eventually become too much. It was only when the sunlight warmed his skin that he knew he could open his eyes in the knowledge he would not find death immediately beyond his sight, and he uneasily shambled out of the bed, running his hand over the nearby end table in an attempt to find the clock as it chimed for the third time.

He managed to do so, with perhaps too much zeal, as he knocked the abusive timekeeper off it's perch.

Mike left it where it lay.

* * *

He found Jessica in the living room, as usual. Of all those who had emerged from the woods that evening, she had certainly improved the most, if only because none other had been reduced to a catatonic state following the affair. It had taken nearly a week to coax the memories of wandering in the dark from her mouth, and even then it was mostly incoherent. She had not reacted at the name of her hunters, for 'Wendigo' had as much impact to her ears as an exotic vegetable one might have uncovered at the fruit stand one Saturday afternoon. The moment to distinguish them by such a name had long passed, and on the rare occasions one were to speak to her of the nightmare, she would only address those dark creatures as 'them'.

She seemed to sense his approach, and shuffled across the couch ever so slightly so as to allow Mike the space on the couch to fall upon after another failed night to find rest, though she did not turn her head to confirm it was indeed her boyfriend.

'Morning, Jess,' Mike sighed, as he allowed his legs to collapse from underneath him.

She murmured a sleepy reply, as both closed their eyes once more. Rest never came naturally anymore, and to finding such came in the form of half conscious naps; the brief moment of awareness before the sub-conscience is allowed to take over once more. It might as well have been classified as an exercise; the act of walking that fine line between blissful awakeness, and the deep, black pool of scarred memory.

It did nothing to improve their health, and both spent their days gaunt eyed from lack of true rest, but neither did it destroy them entirely.

And thus it was considered greater than the alternative.

Almost without thought, Jessica allowed herself to slide along the rearmost support of the couch, until her head lay nestled upon Mike's shoulder.

He did not reject her presence, as they lay there in the morning sun, their woes all but forgotten, for the present moment.

* * *

Casting an anxious glance towards the wooden doorframe, Sam's eyes never ceased to move, as she realigned the papers laid before her on the desk, flipping through the pages at a speed with which she would have absorbed nothing, if she had not already trudged through each and every one at least a dozen times in the past evening alone.

'He should be here soon.'

'I hope he is,' replied her companion, to her eternal despair, 'for his own sake.'

She only spared him the most abrupt of glances. Daniel McAuliffe, self professed criminal lawyer, had about as much charisma of a dog that had been shot, buried, and then exhumed for a morbid museum's display.

Although she had been told otherwise of his capacity in the courtroom, outside of it, he was probably the last person she would trust with her defense.

Or rather, Mike's, as a trio of knocks announced his presence beyond the oaken barrier.

'Ah, Michael Munroe,' McAuliffe said, 'we were just wondering when you would be arriving.'

'Mike, Jesus,' Sam gasped, rising from her seat, 'do you know what time it is? Your summons is in less than an hour. You don't think-'

'Thanks for the concern, Sam,' Mike sighed, 'but you don't think it's a little late to be hoping for a reprieve?'

'He's right, Samantha,' McAuliffe said, rustling his own deck of papers, 'right now, your innocence is hardly the issue. Formalities aside, it's just a matter of how bad they're going to sic the dogs on you.'

If anyone had expected the troubles of Blackwood Pines to have remained with the cursed mountain, they were to be proven sorely wrong. Having survived an evening of being hunted by the horrors of the night, law and order had been the last item on anyone's agenda when the Rangers of Blackwood County brought the survivors into the station to confirm each of their own tales. Subsequently, everything had spilled out; how they had destroyed the lodge and a derelict sanitorium in one night of madness, as well as the slight matter of nearly agreeing to shoot one of their number on the fears of infection.

So it should have been expected, although no one foresaw such in so near a future, that barely a week later, Mike would receive a summons for the aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder of his ex-girlfriend.

It had not been helped by the fact Emily's father had amassed quite a fortune that was quickly dedicated to Mike's near extinction in the eyes of the law, had he not been able to get a hold of Josh's old contacts through Chris, namely, Daniel McAuliffe, who had managed to bail Josh out of his old antics, at least until a year ago.

But a few drunk disturbances of the peace is hardly comparable to attempted murder, and along with Mike's damning confession, it had not taken long to destroy Mike's credibility in front of the judge, although McAuliffe had not backed down without a fight, and against his own better judgement, had played the 'exceptional circumstances' card in front of a skeptical court who believed any mention of 'evil spirits' warranted a trip to an asylum.

And with Emily's own testimony to support that, the session had ended inconclusively, if only to be delayed for a second assembly that could clarify the events that led up to the supposed attack.

Mike was not the only one to fall under the axe; Ashley's name had also appeared on the papers, but ironically enough, she herself was already serving a protracted period of time in the cooler. After being debriefed by the Rangers, the survivors had received an innocuous visit from a number of darkly clothed individuals, who had demanded their oaths of confidentiality on the topic. Ashley of course, as a writer who had seen too much to remain silent for long, had broken that promise as soon as she had managed to return home. It was certainly a well intentioned warning for anyone foolish enough to attempt to call Blackwood Pines their home, but the government would not have any of it. Two days later, she was arrested on charges of drunk driving; a ridiculous notion for one who knew her, considering her poor reaction to any tonic, as well as her lack of access to a four wheeled vehicle, but the authorities had deemed it otherwise. Three months later, and they had still found even more jumped-up charges to guarantee her silence, much to Chris' dismay, as he worked daily with his own lawyer to collect enough evidence to supercede an order that had clearly come from too high up the chain of command for a pair of teenagers to combat.

And then there was the property charges. Understandably, the Washingtons had finally had enough with the disappearance of their last child in the presence of the same group of teenagers that were clearly a bad influence in the eyes of a skeptic. And a mountain resort home was not easily disposed of.

So Sam's bravery had become her bane, and their days were now spent traversing from courtroom to courtroom, defending one another as the wolves descended upon the scent of blood in the air.

And her warning! She had given the police a chance to ensure no others died, and the result was two officers who would never see the light of day again, written off as a means to appease whatever false lead a band of marauding teenagers had placed for the keepers of law and order. Now that they were gone, the sheriff's department was not exactly willing to admit they had failed to take a threat seriously, so the blame was once again shoveled onto Sam's doorstep, for 'a vague and grave underestimation of the risk involved in the suggested operation.'

Perhaps, she wondered more than once, it might have been better if they had never survived the night.


	2. Stranger

' _Wolf-Seven, radio check.'_

' _Acknowledging signal, Seven. New orders from Basilisk. Confirm.'_

' _Acknowledged, send order.'  
_

' _Seven, Matrix acquired possible intel on the/Unknown: heavy interference/ retrieve intelligence. Forwarding contacts now.'  
_

' _Repeat you first, command; what am I looking at?'  
_

' _Possible intelligence on the black site and /Unknown: heavy interference/ you encountered down there.'  
_

' _Understood, Serpent. They know I'm coming?'  
_

' _Wouldn't count on it. Locate and extract whatever you can.'  
_

' _Digital intrusion?'  
_

' _Data nets are locked tight. Face to face contact.'  
_

' _Crap.'  
_

' _Problem, Seven?'  
_

' _Gah, negative, Serpent. I have the coordinates. Estimated time to closest target, thirty two minutes. Seven out.'_

 _Audio recording of intercepted wireless transmission between unknown persons. Data packages transmitted were intercepted, but self-terminated on unauthorized access. Washington and Langley notified._

* * *

The case was a sham. There was no other word for it, as Mike faced the unbound rhetoric of the prosecution. In truth, Sam admitted, the case was crude in parts, and even unpolished, but it mattered not; the evidence alone would be substantial enough to build the gallows from which Mike would swing if the death penalty were still enforced.

'Let me make it clear, your honor. The defendant not only admitted to threatening the prosecutor, but we also have the undoctored interviews from the Blackwood County Police Department of all seven survivors of the snowstorm three years ago atop Blackwood Pines. So, in the face of this evidence, Michael Munroe, do you plead guilty to the charges of assault, and attempted murder?'

'Yes, and no,' Mike snapped for the fifth time that day. He partly wished they would simply get on with his sentence, but his prosecutors seemed to be desperate to draw out his ordeal and humiliation. 'I told you, I admitted to aiming a gun at Emily, but I did so under the impression she could have placed us all in danger.'

'But it is proclaimed in in the testimony of Ashley Mason that it was discovered that this, bite, you claim to have instigated the assault, was not in fact dangerous. Do you deny this evidence?'

'No, but it was after we found it. We-'

'Can you prove that the prosecutor may have threatened you prior to the alleged assault? Can it be proved that your actions may be deemed as that of self defense, as opposed to an attempt on another's life?'

'You have the testimonies,' Mike protested, 'you know then that-'

'Other witnesses detail the course of events that we now know to be the assault with a lethal weapon,' the lawyer went on, 'but the very nature behind that assault is not directly addressed in those testimonials.'

'Don't you have-'

'I do not recall asking a question, Mr Munroe. You will kindly refrain from interrupting me until it is the turn of the defense to outline their case against the State.'

'Ashley's testimony will-'

'Ms Mason's conviction has removed her from the courtroom, Mr Munroe. As a result, she will be tried in absentia of the charges presented, and as a convicted felon, her crimes will reflect upon the sworn statement she claims to be the truth.'

The torture continued.

* * *

Sam might have been a pacifist, but there are limits where every man and woman must draw the line. She had initially sought to stay clear of Mike's conviction, with the flak she had received from both the police and the Washingtons over the various wrongs she had allegedly visited upon each of the aggrieved parties, but it became increasingly difficult to do so, with the matter weighing upon Mike's mind as much as it did. In fact, any conversation she had with him in the weeks following the accusations practically became devoted to the long chain of legal disasters each had suffered.

And then there was Emily. Sam could not say she had ever been on friendly terms with Mike's old partner, but recent developments had pushed them well over the breaking point, when the two had met outside the local coffee house. By chance, Sam had only finished recommending a much needed psychiatrist for the purposes of getting Jessica on the road to recovery, when she had encountered Emily at the door. Of course, the inevitable occurred, as the other woman immediately launched into accusation after accusation of allegedly assisting in Mike's trial.

Having known Emily for a period of time greatly exceeding that which she would have prefered, Sam had given her the benefit of the doubt, until her gentle attempts to defuse the situation combusted in a fireball when Emily accused her of attempting to get into Mike's bed.

To be fair to Emily, it was no secret that Sam had begun seeing more of Mike after the Blackwood incident, but her reasons were, like always, too innocent for the cynical to perceive. Sam's parents were away, again, leaving her alone. And after a suitably traumatic experience on the mountain, seclusion was the last item on Sam's mind. Her time in the household was kept to a minimum, and most of her daily life was spent on the streets, in the most crowded location possible, more often than not. It was only natural that she would seek out friends.

But for Emily, having finally ended her strained relationship with Matt a week or two prior, and watching Mike apparently ensnare another woman: it was all too much.

A number of derogatory insults later, including a rather blatant use of the term 'slut', and Sam was finally finished with her upstart peer.

It was what had finally driven her to Mike's defense, but even then, the odds were stacked against him. Jessica was still in no condition to face the pressures of the court, and had been excused on medical grounds, while Chris had sent his apologies, since the courts had conveniently decided to host Ashley's appeal on the very same day as Mike's convictions.

Her own statement seemed to carry little weight with the judge and jury, who seemed to have already donned the black cap in preparing the Draconian method of justice through extreme prejudice, and in several hours, they found themselves at the end of the line.

McAuliffe had done his best to illustrate the remarkable circumstances that surrounded the incident, but the prosecution, like any sensible man, blasted the truth from the sky before it had even managed to stretch it's wings. It was a courtroom nightmare; to adopt the traditional route of self defense would have amounted perjury on Mike's part, whilst to adhere to his sworn oath in court was to present a defense based upon the existence of a band of demonic spirits none present would have even heard of, much less believed to exist.

In fact, it was nearly a blessing when the judge pronounced the word 'guilty' from his mouth. As always, the suspense proved far worse than the true bite, that is, if the bite did not prove lethal to the victim.

Sam, on the other hand could scarcely believe her ears, whilst Mike only looked on, solemn at the verdict. He had known well from the beginning that such was the only outcome that could have met his case, and he hardly felt Sam's hand reach about his shoulder to hold him steady. They had weathered so harsh a storm together that now, in the face of a legal battle, it was bewildering to admit defeat had come, as the sentence was read aloud, to her eternal horror.

'For the charges of an assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder, the penalty is life imprisonment, with possibility of parole following the minimum of fifteen years served in confinement. This is-'

'No!' Sam blurted out, forgetting herself, 'You can't! It's-'

'Be quite!' McAuliffe hissed, shooting her an ugly glance, before a sharp crack cut him off.

'There will order in my court. Mr McAuliffe, control your witness! You may file for an appeal, if so, this is not the place to make your grievances known.'

There was far more that had yet to spill out of the honored judge's mouth, but it was ended as quickly as the fury had begun; a man in a hideous beige suit that refused to compliment with his pale complexion had slipped beside the judge unannounced, and quietly earned his attention with a gentle rap upon the shoulder. Then, a sealed envelope had exchanged hands, and a moment of incomprehensible surprise passed over the judge's face, as he tore open the seal.

He did not read it once, and for nearly a whole minute, the courtroom was silent.

Then, uneasily, he picked up the gavel, as if to reassert his beaten dignity, as he pronounced the envelope's contents.

'As of this present moment,' he announced uneasily, 'due to the emergence of new evidence, Michael Munroe is cleared of all charges against the state, under order from the Federal Circuit.'

Once again, he had far more to say, but it was overturned by the rising tide of protests, this time streaming from far more than one source. The prosecutors were alive with protests, and Emily's family had more or less leapt to their feet in unison at the outrage, although Emily herself remained seated, quite taken aback by the whole affair.

Mike shared her sentiments entirely, as he was escorted, amid a flurry of oncoming abuse, from the court, to be deposited onto the streets once again.

* * *

'I have no idea what angel is looking over you, Munroe,' McAuliffe sighed, as they departed the courthouse, 'but you take my advice. Stay out of the public eye for a good while, and then some more. I wouldn't be surprised if they retract their statement again tomorrow.'

Mike only nodded in a mixture of triumph and despair. At least in a jail cell, he would know his terms for another fifteen years. Now, let loose into the world again, that uncertainty had returned to haunt him.

'Enjoy your freedom, Munroe.'

'McAuliffe,' Mike finally said, breaking his silence, 'thank you. For everything, I mean-'

'Thank God, man. Now, if you'll excuse me, I got a DUI case in New Mexico tomorrow, so, if you get into trouble, you know who to call.'

With that, he was gone, roaring off down the street before Sam had even a chance to open her mouth, leaving the two survivors sullen in the empty car park.

'Shall we get going?' she suggested, eying the horizon with dread. Though the hour hand had yet to even reach the halfway point between the numbers sentenced 'six' and 'seven' on her wrist, the last tinges of sunlight were making their landfall upon the planet, as the sky yellowed with the descent of Helios' chariot.

Mike returned a similar glance. He'd been thinking exactly the same thought.

'Yes, let's.'

* * *

Sam had initially planned to head to a nearby mall for the security of numbers that strangers could provide, but when Mike offered her the chance to sleep over at his own apartment, she gladly accepted the offer. Her late night escapades were only a means to forestall the eventual solitude she would face, and in the end, exhaustion would still bring it's own host of nightmares to plague her rest.

Unfortunately, thus far, they had been unable to acquire a cab, and so they had begun walking down one of the better lit streets that ran away from the courthouse when a car abruptly pulled up by the stretch of pavement they occupied.

'Excuse me,' asked the driver, 'you wouldn't happen to be Michael Munroe? The one at the summons today?'

'Yeah,' Mike answered uncomfortably, 'that guy.'

'Wait a second,' Sam interceded, studying the figure hunched over the seat uncomfortably, 'you were there, weren't you?'

'As in I was asked to hand the Honorable Judge Carrow your freedom papers?' The driver gave a dismissive shrug at that, as he broke eye contact with the two pedestrians. 'Yes, you'd be correct on that account, ma'am.'

'Ma'am?' Sam asked in disbelief, for the man seated at the wheel was easily twenty, if not thirty years her senior.

'Whatever,' he answered with another shrug, before turning back to them, 'listen, I need to talk to you, and you both look like you could use a ride home. If you want, the door's open.'

The lock clicked open, but neither Sam nor Mike moved from where they stood. From first impressions, their savior did not seem to possess any psychotic tendencies, but Sam knew that could easily change in the blink of an eye. Then again, she told herself, she had seen Josh time and time again after the culmination of their sins, over a year ago, and she had failed to see his slow slip into madness with her daily acclimatization to his unhinged mind.

'Hey,' the older man sighed with the slightest tone of impatience, 'I'm holding up traffic here. You want to walk, just say the word.'

Sam leant forward ever so slightly, hoping to find some indication of Mike's own thoughts on the sudden appearance of a stranger. She was a slight deal shorter than his eyes, but unfortunately, Mike did not see her peer into his own face from the corner of his sight. Submerged in his own thoughts, he had seen only movement alone, presumed Sam had moved to the car's side, and promptly followed suit, opening the door without a word before he seated himself inside. Sam followed, convinced it was Mike's prerogative alone.

Perhaps, if Sam had ever grown to favor fashion over function, and donned a set of high heels that day to the point at which she might had faced Michael on an even footing, the lives of Samantha Ruth, and Michael Munroe might have deviated in a tremendous number of most profound manners. But then again, perhaps if such had been the case, perhaps none would have emerged from Blackwood pines that fateful evening.

It is often said that the future holds many doors. But so often do we forget that only one of those doors will ever be opened.

And it's key is so very often buried within the ruins of the past.

* * *

'Shit.'

It was not the first expletive to have left the driver's mouth since they had entered his vehicle, nor was it likely to be his last. They came out in a rather incoherent string of coarse pronouns on occasion, but more often than not, they were only directed at the situation as opposed to another's driving skills.

'It's alright,' Mike tried uneasily, 'you can just take the next left; we come back on the same road-'

'Really? And I suppose it would be achievable if this motherfucker didn't get a fucking move on!'

The stranger's words lit up in vehemence again at the insult, and he repeatedly hammered the horn, terrifying the wrong person, as the car in front accelerated to escape the seething motorist, whilst the unknowing subject of the abuse; a lady on the left lane who was taking her own time to both read a text message and progress down the road at a snail's pace, continued on with her current practice, oblivious to the imminent danger.

'Maybe it's important,' Sam suggested. She wasn't thanked for it.

'Maybe,' the man replied, gripping the wheel in a vice-like fashion, 'and maybe she just needs her head rearranged.'

Thankfully, the text was not a long one, and she quickly accelerated on after the initial outburst, in time for their strange ally to divert them off onto the indicated path.

'So,' the man said, trying to force a calmness he clearly did not feel, 'Samantha, right? The one who blew up the mountain?'

'What?'

'Some old private home, and a loony bin, right?'

'Um,' Mike put in, 'that last one might have been me-'

'And what was the summons about anyway? Most lads break up if the gal doesn't work out, Munroe. Heed my advice with this one, fella-'

'Hey,' Sam interjected, 'we're not, together or anything.'

'Whatever,' he replied flippantly, 'my point is, shooting some lass in the head ain't gonna solve your problems, my friend. Not in the long run; too much red tape involved.'

'I'm right here, you know?'

'Are you, Sammy?' The man seemed to shrug again, before sarcasm filled his voice. 'Good grief, thank the Father for that, then. For a moment I thought the voices were taking over again.'

'I'm sorry,' Mike began, 'who exactly are you?'

'That'll be a good question; _who am I?_ ' The stranger let out a slight chuckle at that inquiry, and the sing-song manner of his repetition of the question hardly put Mike or Sam at ease. 'Let's just say, for all intents and purposes, that I, um, represent a rather unique individual, who has more than a few good reasons to acquire the old Washington property.'

'Don't.' It was impossible to tell who had begun the warning, for it was unanimous in every regard. Their driver though, was unfazed.

'Don't worry, I understand your position. Creepy shit goes on, bad crap nearly gets people killed; the government tries to shut you up, and now someone is waving cash just for the chance to get their head clawed off by a ghoul, am I right so far? And I can see that look, Samantha. Don't give me that; I'm serious.'

For the first moment since they had stepped inside the car, Sam gave the odd man a proper examination. He was unchanged from before, save for the fact that his disagreeable suit had been substituted for a matte black trench coat. In fact, his clothing was entirely fitted to exist within the dark; his pants, his shoes; he even had a set of similarly covered gloves pulled over his hands, which routinely shuffled awkwardly across the steering wheel, as if it were his first time upon the road.

Yet his face was that of a man who had seen too many days of the same environment; haggard, though his laugh lines were the most prominent of his features. Deep indentations about his mouth, yet they were off; only beginning and ending just an inch above the corners of his mouth, and Sam was left to the deduction that the man was well versed in false smiles, bereft of genuinity, for there was no way those features could have existed with the full use of a face on a daily basis, whilst his hair had silvered in more than a few places.

Yet he seemed to care not for his appearance, as he rambled on, presuming to know everything of their trials.

'Yes, I followed both your cases for quite a while, as well as that friend of your's. Ashley, was it? But yes, my client is, let's say, apprehensive, to acquire the Blackwood grounds, but before he does so, he would like to acquire a degree of, first hand knowledge, on the affair that you were unfortunate enough to have endured.'

'Your client,' Mike replied, 'should leave it alone. That's the extent of my advice.'

'I'm in the same boat,' Sam added, 'you need to forget that mountain right now, if you want to live.'

'You misunderstand; perhaps that was a poor choice of words. No, you see, my client is a bit of a believer, if you would call it that, in the occulent tales, and he has expressed quite an interest in the curse that holds the mountain.'

Neither quite knew how to respond, so he continued unopposed.

'You can call me Praestigio, if you want,' he mumbled idelly, before he checked himself, 'you know what, I'll be amazed if you could pronounce that. Why don't we just leave it at 'Stig'?'

'Stig,' Sam repeated softly, 'where're you from?'

'Here and there,' came the reply, 'Stockholm, to be precise.'

'Right,' Mike answered, hardly caring for that detail, 'and why on earth would you be interested in a cursed mountain?'

'My client has his reasons,' Stig replied, hunching over the wheel as he went, 'But if I were to hazard a guess, he'll be interested in breaking it.'

'The curse?'

'Well you can't crack a mountain. What the hell did you think I was talking about?'

* * *

'The offer's a simple one,' Stig began, as he closed the door behind him. Parking outside Mike's apartment, he had initially planned to brief the pair in the lobby, until he had discovered a third survivor was present, up the narrow flight of stairs.

Jessica had approached the stranger with only mild interest, until he had voiced his concerns for Mt Washington, after which she had become intrigued by the entire affair, yet seemed to adopt a rather passive approach to the affair, allowing Mike and Sam to head whatever was about to transpire.

'You, and a few others, are the only accounts of what occurred on that mountain three months ago. Your interviews with the Blackwood County Police, no matter how essential they were to guaranteeing you to a lock up, are censored to hell, and sequestered. So, with that no longer a solution, I have a proposal for you three. You name your price, and I take you see my client, where you'll give us a no-shit assessment of what we can expect up there, and we're done.'

'Wait,' Mike asked, bewildered, 'you mean-'

'That you could be a greedy shit and not just be content with the fact I bailed you out of a life in the doghouse?' He sighed, 'yes, I suppose you could, but hey, I don't write the rules now, do I?'

'Mike,' Sam began immediately, 'Ashley.'

Stig gave her an uncertain glance, but the understanding was clear upon Mike's features, as he turned back to his savior's representative.

'You did it once,' he started, 'can you do it again?'

Author's Note: Thanks for reading so far guys! Leave a review and let me know what you think, and how I can improve this; constructive feedback is always appreciated


	3. Choices

_'Wolf Seven to Serpent. Acknowledge.'_

 _'Received, Seven. Report.'_

 _'Made contact with four of seven targets.'_

 _'Elaborate.'_

 _'Let's see, one stuck up and unresponsive bitch, one cationic lady, one shellshocked convict and a rather compassionate gal; quite bearable when you compare her to the rest of the shit. She'll die first; bottle of Narx says it right now.'_

 _'Radio discipline, Seven.'_

 _'Yeah, sure.'_

 _'Anything of significance to report?'_

 _'Yes, I need a request. Are we still linked into the courts?'_

 _'More or less.'_

 _'I need a release order, on an asset. /Unknown: Heavy interference: Possible encryption/_

 _'I'll get the line to Callidus.'_

 _'Appreciate it, Serpent.'_

 _'Be advised /Unknown: possible bombardment/ making another advance in /Unknown: heavy interference/ Friendly forces overrun in the third quadrant. Counter attack is imminent.'_

 _'Affirmative, Serpent. Good hunting.'_

 _Audio recording of intercepted wireless transmission between unknown persons. Ordered review of all release orders issued within the past 24 hours, and renewed security measures imposed upon legal databases. Warning issued to Frontline elements._

* * *

They found Chris, and to their surprise, Matt, inside the prison.

Given the fact Chris looked as if he were to hit someone, and in fact looked to have already struck Matt at least once, Mike could only presume events had escalated to a boiling point when he, along with Sam, Jessica, and Stig walked in through the front door.

He was nearly incoherent by the time Mike was able to help drag him away from the officer he had previously confronted, who looked as startled as a deer caught in the headlamps, as he attempted to wipe some of the spittle from his eyes.

'Jesus, Chris,' Mike exclaimed, once they were at a safe distance, 'what the hell happened to you?'

'You don't think you can turn your back on me!' he screamed past Mike, at the officer, who had been headed off by Stig in the process before he could produce a pair of handcuffs, 'why the fuck did you do it?'

'Matt, what the hell happened?'

'Not a lot of good,' Matt admitted, before he studied his ally, and realisation dawned on him, 'Oh. Mike. What are you guys doing here?'

'We came to help get Ashley; what're you here for?'

'Guys,' Sam suggested, as she stepped into Chris' sight, replacing the petrified officer he had previously been directing all manner of abuse at, ''maybe we should get him outside before we chat. Come on, Chris.'

'Alright,' he started suddenly, as if the anger had suddenly flushed from his veins as soon as he broke eye contact with the poor man, 'alright, alright, let's, let's just get out of here.'

* * *

'Chris, man what the hell got into you?'

'I don't know, man, it just came over me. Have you seen her?'

'Who?'

'Ashley! I mean, goddamn, they...I don't know what the hell they did to her, but whatever it was-'

'And if you know what's good for you, stay out of my sight!'

They jumped at the vehement command that reverberated from the station's doors, and moments later, Stig barged out, with, someone under his arm.

'Ash?'

Chris was right. No one knew what they had done to her. Her right eye was sunken and shy to the light, where some tremendous application of force had closed it up, and similarly dark patterns marked her face. Her lip was split in several places, and even her remaining eye failed to register them, as she gazed onward with a vacant stare.

'Please,' she whispered softly, 'don't put me back there.'

'Ashley?' Chris pleaded with her softly, 'it's okay, no one's going to put you anywhere. My God, what did they do to you?'

'Please, don't leave me alone.'

* * *

'Who would have though solitary confinement would work so well in fucking the mind?' Stig mused quietly, as he exhaled the exhaust of the cigarette clasped between his fingers. 'Fucking genius, that's what it is.'

'You think this is a joke?' Mike asked, rising to his feet.

'I'd applaud the thought if we were ignoring the ethical argument,' Stig replied immediately, taking in another rich cloud of the fumes, 'Think about it; lock someone on their own, in the dark, after a night of being hunted by your nightmares. No better way to shut someone up. In their own head.'

They had left the penitentiary in their wake, before Ashley had been unable to progress any further without weighing Chris down as she grew smaller and smaller in his hands, until she had sunk to the ground, sobbing. It had been no easy task to remove her from the street, to get her to a nearby park where they had finally been given a chance to address her wounds.

'Why would they even do this?' Jessica asked in disbelief.

'The esteemed sergeant told me she attacked a visitor; some prick in a suit from Washington. Then, well, she 'fell down' a flight of stairs on her way back to solitary. Which is on the ground floor, mind you.'

'Seriously?' Mike was unable to control that outburst, before he realised that the sarcasm laden in Stig's voice should have already told him of the older man's true attitudes towards the incident.

'Personally? I think she just turned down an offer to, collaborate with government interests.'

'What do you mean?'

'Like it or not, your government seems to be unusually eager to bury everything about the Blackwood Pines incident. Where do you think your old partner got the cash to set the dogs on you? And mind you, her father's position doesn't come cheap. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if someone approached him with the choice to flay a former acquaintance or himself.'

'You mean that was government funded?'

'Who else? And Sam's 'crime' against the Blackwood county is thin. Hell, manslaughter? How did you think the damn case is still afloat?'

They sat in silence as they realised what was being said. That is, Mike and Jessica remained in silence. Chris, Sam, and Matt were a couple of benches away, attempting to soothe a scarred mind. Like all of them, a traumatic evening had left Ashley in desperate need for company. Company she could trust, and company she had been deprived of, when she was not seeing the wrong end of the a baton.

'They're going after you one by one,' he stated bluntly. 'Anyone associated with the incident on that mountain three months ago.'

'But why?'

'I ain't a textbook, Sherlock. But you want my guess, those things might have attracted some, interests, after the war started.'

'War' was certainly a stretch. America was a large continent, and it's West Coast, despite nearly a month of warfare, was relatively unchanged. People still drove about the streets, distracted by music, the media, or the inherent need to persecute someone, all the while heedless of the danger in the distance. Occasionally, someone might catch some atrocity in the newspaper, and exclaim 'how horrible!' before flipping the page to the market, or the sports. It was certainly peculiar, considering the fact America had, for all intents and purposes, been invaded, but that sensation of horror had quickly abated after nearly a week, and the enemy was on the run, back to their stronghold on the West Coast. Their gains had been brief and pathetic when compared to the entire American landmass, and if one ignored the casualties, it might have earned as much attention as a foreign war; a topic to occupy the breakfast conversation.

But it was still difficult to ignore the numbers, for they numbered in the thousands. Three thousand was the latest figure in the most recent offensive, and thousands more wounded; far worse than the collective war of Afghanistan alone. And the number of civilians lost continued to climb.

It was all that was needed for a resurgence in patriotism; a short, bloody war against a despicable foe, with victory an inevitability on the horizon, and recruitment lines for the National Guard, which were being pressed to the frontlines to supplement bloodied regular divisions, ran on for streets at a time.

Of course, the survivors of the Blackwood incident had other concerns besides a marauding army on the opposite side of the continent. And the inevitable triumph only seemed to render it all the more redundant, as peacetime resumed, having never truly left.

'I don't have much experience in mad science,' Stig went on, 'but I'd be damned if someone didn't hear about a bunch of cursed creatures that hunt in the dark and didn't see a weapon in them. And I'm fairly certain the government was thinking along the same lines.'

'You mean,' Mike asked in a stilted manner, 'they're-'

'Trying to catch the psychos? No, someone high up has brains. But as for the enemy; it could be, um, an interesting means to turn the tables, no?'

Understanding dawned, only to be replaced by anxiety. The thought of Wendigos being unleashed as a weapon was a prospect that no one particularly welcomed.

'Army's probably content to keep it a secret,' Stig continued, hardly aware that his cigarette was nearly finished, and close to singeing his fingers, 'but it's a matter of time before someone decides to weaponise your nightmares. If it ain't going to be the enemy, it'll be the army itself. That's why I'll bet my client's interested. This way at least, no one gets their hands on the apocalypse.'

'So what do you want from us?'

Stig contemplated the question for a time, before a wry smile crept across his face. It was not a kind one, Mike thought. It was one tinged by morbid amusement, and sadism.

'To go back there with us, to Blackwood Pines.'

* * *

Everyone was alive with protests in the very moment Stig let that crucial piece of detail into the air.

'You've got to be kidding me!' cried Jessica.

'No fucking way!' protested Mike.

Even Matt and Chris added their own assertions, having only heard the phrase 'Blackwood Pines' to know something was amiss. Once they had all been brought up to speed on the matter, those protests only grew in magnitude, as Sam joined in, and Ashley seemed to come close to breaking down at the thought.

'Why can't we just tell you what you need to know?' Sam demanded, always the logical one in the face of despair. 'That was our agreement.'

'We said you'd meet the old man. Call him a skeptic if you will,' Stig rumbled, 'my word, what did he call it? Ah, yes. Insufficient. Like it or not, you're the only ones with any knowledge on what happened up there, or what is awaiting us, and I'm not taking back a second hand report to get beaten over the head with.'

'That's complete horseshit, man,' Chris said, at a far lower volume than his peers, only for Stig to turn his gaze upon him.

'Christopher, right? You're the data monkey of this band, aren't you? Tell me then, ape, do you trust everything you find on the Internet? Because I've seen enough shit on there to break every toilet on this damn planet!'

Chris was lost for words. Despite being taken aback by the primate comparison, there was a degree of truth in that rhetoric. Analyst or not, Chris would be the first to admit that one area his skepticism did not extend to in sufficient depth was in the Internet. Somehow, disbelieving one's eyes always easier than something that someone had taken the time to construct deliberately with their hands, or rather a keyboard.

'I trust people,' Stig went on, 'as does my employer, arse as he can be. I'm not paid to act as a courier, and I'm not paid to have my head separated by a lack of intelligence on the ground. What happens when we find something you conveniently left out in a recording? Ring you up while something uses us to test it's teeth?'

He could see that they were coming around to his line of thought, but that did not mean they were any more convinced, so he played his final card.

'There was another among you, wasn't there? Who didn't come back.'

'Oh God,' Sam whispered.

'Joshua. Washington wasn't it?' As he said the name, he reached into the overcoat, producing a thin sleeve of plastic, before hurling it into Mike's arms.

It was a resealable bag, but within it, there was something red. Like blood had stained the edges of the flexible container as it had traveled down its walls.

'We found that when we were looking for the first team we sent down there.'

'You've already tried to go down there?'

'Why do you think I'm here? If we found out what the hell was going on by ourselves, ya think we'd be talking right now?'

'What is this?' Mike asked, hefting the bag up to his eye, although the query was tinged by a hint of unease, as if he had already come to suspect it's contents.

'Forensic residue,' Stig replied, 'found it on the ground beside some empty shell casings belonging to the lead team. DNA matches that of Joshua Washington.'

'You're not saying-' Chris broke off, unable to finish the sentence, as his mouth moved in the air without producing a sound, like a fish gasping for life, out of water.

'Your friend is still up there. I'm giving you a chance to bring him home.' He paused, letting the message sink in, before he looked down, and realised the cigarette, now only a butt, had fallen from his gloved hands on it's own accord. Irritated, he turned away, stalking back into the night as he provided a final offer.

'I leave in the morning. The choice is yours.'


	4. Northbound

Author's Note: Apologies if not much seems to occur in this chapter: we're mainly setting the base of things to come here. Thanks for the support so far, and if you guys have a moment, drop a review and let me know what I can do to improve!

* * *

' _Radio check.'_

' _Wolf Seven copies.'_

' _Send, over.'_

' _Wolf is bringing home the hunt, Serpent. Offer's accepted.'_

' _Affirmative, Seven. Rendezvous at Outpost Watcher.'_

' _I thought Watcher was dismantled.'_

' _It was. The Seventh is moving back into the AO tomorrow.'_

' _Copy that, Serpent. Seven out.'_

 _Insert 1.a. of intelligence report compiled by SAD: audio intercept. Command strongly advised to circulate warning to frontline elements_ _ **immediately**_ _: previous intercept failed to provide sufficient warning. Frontline divisions forced to withdraw with significant casualties._

* * *

The road north was uneventful, if monotonous, as Stig guided the small van along the interstate at a speed that would have undoubtedly held lethal consequences, if another vehicle had decided to approach them from the opposite direction.

But none did, and, faced with confinement in rather cramped conditions, the only threat seemed to be the van's other occupants.

It was a mixed band; that much was certain. Chris spent most of the journey attempting his best to coax anything out of Ashley, trying his hand more than once at nursing, but a rapidly progressive van did not prove the best of locations for such delicate activities. Jessica was silent for the most part, still quite unable to come to terms with what exactly had hunted her and Matt in the darkness, as she attempted to settle her nerves with the passing landscape beyond the glass. Sam was also silent, though for her own reasons. Burying Josh had been hard; with only Mike's testimony and little else to go upon, the temptation had always been there to simply say Mike had snapped. That his eyes had deceived him, or that Josh had somehow escaped in the dark, despite everything logic would insist.

And now that he had resurfaced, she had naught to inform of her of what the 'normal' reaction would be, upon being told that a close friend, and more recently a schizophrenic, unhinged maniac, but still a friend, was still alive, stranded atop one of the most desolate locations across the Canadian border, injured and potentially responsible for an attack on a team of private contractors?

Another might have reacted violently, blaming Mike for failing to pursue Josh to his grave; perhaps blaming herself, for failing to die at his side, or even blaming the world for the most contrived of reasons to simply maintain one's sanity.

But Sam did not. She did not know how she felt, nor how she was meant to feel, and perhaps it was for the best.

And Mike had enough problems, considering the fact his relationship with Matt was hardly amicable.

The two had rarely spoken to one another even before that fateful night, and after he had discovered Mike, in an understandable state of fear and paranoia, had pulled a gun upon Emily, Matt's outlook upon Mike was icy at best.

Certainly, he too had finally decided to end the relationship with his overly-assertive girlfriend, but the decision had not entirely been his own. Despite his agreement to add his own voice to her defense, Emily's frustration at the fact he was in fact, absent at the aggrieved incident, and hence carried little weight in a trial that most of her friends had already sided against her in, quickly manifested as Emily's anger usually did. In the form of abuse.

That, and an uncautioned comment on his part in regards to her ingratitude, finally shoveled the last mound of dirt on their relationship, which Emily ended herself by unceremoniously throwing Matt out of her house.

Most would have hung up the attempt, but despite himself, Matt still clung onto the vague and self destructive hope that there would be reconciliation between the two. Perhaps if he had concluded the disaster himself, things would be different. But she had slammed the door upon him, leaving him both disillusioned as well as regretful of his own choices; not in choosing to date her, that is, but rather the series of mistakes that led to their breakup.

It was a horrible mixture of regret and frustration at his own silence throughout her antics that tore at Matt, coupled by his inbuilt concept of loyalty. An admirable trait, but so often a shackle.

So when the topic of Mike's release reared it's ugly head, Matt had finally had enough. Perhaps out of a distorted belief that she would forgive him, for his defense of her name in absentia, that the argument started, and Mike, having recently endured an unyielding inquisition, that had not experienced the hunt of the Wendigo, was not willing to back down.

The result was a change in seats after a quickly scheduled stop, and a rather silent atmosphere for at least twenty minutes before Chris finally cleared the air with an ill timed joke. An old and unrefined one for that matter, but a joke nonetheless, and a low babble of conversation began once more. In pairs, or at times trios, but nothing quite so dramatic as the near combat between Mike and Matt.

At the same time, Ashley's presence was one that both distributed comfort and unease at the same time. There had been more than a few objections raised to her involvement in returning to the cursed mountain, but she had proven more than adamant. And like Sam, she would not be left alone again. Breaking for the night at a motel on route north, she was clearly glad that the decision was made to occupy a pair of rooms with an adjoining door, that was, for the convenience of everyone's mind, kept open at all times, though Stig himself, grumbling something about the need for privacy, had acquired his own accommodation.

For her sake, Chris and Sam were both concerned for her wellbeing, but by the second day, her condition had vastly improved in the company of friends. A hot meal later, and with the two fridges between the rooms providing sufficient ice for the bruises, Ashley recovered at a rate none had anticipated. Her reaction to Sam's suggestion that they turn around to get her home quickly discarded any hopes possessed by her friends of removing her from the journey, and with a laugh, they embraced her return to the living.

After attempting to find Stig, to find the housekeeper already overturning his room, Sam found him already in the seat of his beaten van, with a distinctive snarl contort across his face that clearly indicated his opinion of the time.

Following a brief, morning scramble to replace the contents of strewn bags, the small band boarded the route north once more.

* * *

'So wait,' Ashley asked, hardly believing her ears, 'you mean that they tried to stick you with attempted murder?'

Mike let out a sigh as he stirred the coffee before him, drawing out the moment before the answer was finally fished from his throat. The final end of the court case had been able to relieve a great deal of strain from his shoulders, and now that he was in the company of friends, he could not help in relishing the attention just a little too long, Sam noted, as she rolled her eyes to the ceiling in rueful disbelief. Some people would never change.

'That's more or less how it went,' he finally replied, nodding as he did so. They had initially attempted to pry into what had exactly transpired to earn Ashley's black eye, and the other multitude of injuries, but, recovered or not, memory is a constantly raw nerve, and she had promptly clamped up. It had taken a skillful degree of maneuvering on Sam's part to pull the conversation back into shallow waters, and now that Matt had excused himself, at perhaps too convenient a time, Ashley had reopened the conversation, this time with the emphasis upon those who had not spent the past three months in lockup. By chance, that query had fallen to Mike, who had wasted no time in relating the court case Emily had brought to his doorstep. It was not so much that Mike knowingly felt the need to boast of his survival; rather, it was the human inability to refrain from withholding one's achievements, sufferings, or defiance of the odds. And with Matt no longer present to defend Emily, any other barriers had quickly vanished, as he related the tale.

'That's horrible,' she sighed when he was finished, looking down at the plate ahead of her.

'They were about to come after you as well,' Mike put in unthinkingly, before Sam elbowed him in the ribs, though it was already far too late for Mike to take it back.

'What?' She asked, confusion intermixed by fear, and Sam, having abandoned any hope of burying the conversation, took up the mantle.

'They wanted to charge you as an accessory,' she explained, 'but it's alright; Stig cleared it up.'

'I must say,' Mike put in, careful with his words now, 'whoever he's working for must have a lot of leverage. I mean, he just handed the judge a paper, and that was it! And that was after they'd even read out the sentence.'

'What would they have given you?' Chris asked, unable to suppress his intrigue.

'Life,' Mike replied sullenly. There was a garbled chorus in response; Jessica exclaimed her disgust and shock, for Mike had refrained from detailing any real details of the case until that breakfast, while Ashley and Chris looked on in horror, unable to comprehend the fact that any explanation for attempting to shoot someone, no matter how reasonable it seemed at the time, had a tendency to fall short in any court whose jury had not been dropped in a dark forest in time for a nocturnal predator's hunt.

'You're kidding me, right?'

'No, he ain't,' Sam admitted, 'really thought he was up for the chopping block when Stig passed the letter up.'

'Who is he, exactly?' Jessica asked. They looked at her as if she were mad, before realising none of them in fact could answer the question, as Jessica moved to elaborate. 'I mean, he overturned your sentence with a sheet of paper. Did he actually say how high up he is?'

'He never actually said,' Mike admitted sheepishly, 'he just said he works for someone. I'm guessing that's the guy that pulls the weight.'

'Speaking of which,' Chris asked, slightly unsettled by what could have been quickly heaped upon Ashley's head in the same legal swordstroke, 'where is he? I didn't see him come in with us?'

'Probably prowling around the van again,' Jessica mumbled, as she took another sip of the coffee, now at a satisfactory temperature that would not set the skin ablaze with the slightest touch.

Since their initial meeting, Stig had remained discreetly below the conversational radar of the small band of friends, and his conversations with them had been somewhat limited in scope, to perhaps the occasional growl, or curt reminder that another day, and hence a fraction of one's precious life, was slipping away. It was only with the greatest reluctance he had allowed them to halt for a late lunch at a fast food outlet just off the highway, and he did not in fact seem to be present to accompany them.

'I mean, did he even eaten breakfast?' Ashley asked. Sam gave her a shrug in reply, before explaining how she had only come across the housecleaner at dawn within his room.

'Hey,' whispered a familiar voice, 'you seeing this?'

Matt's return to the table had gone entirely unnoticed, but he did not seem to, appearing to be entirely engrossed in a nearby television set, wired to a corner of the ceiling, and slowly, their eyes turned about, unanimously falling silent as their ears strained to pick up what was being said.

' _...another costly battle on the outskirts of Washington has been confirmed to have claimed nearly two thousand more lives, and military planners are currently under pressure to provide answers for the defeat. We have live footage of the JSOC press conference, coming up now.'_

The screens were switched over with what could only be described as anarchy. The number of camera flashes that flickered across the display was a tremendous strain upon the eyes, and more than a few of them turned away from the maddening screen. The audio quality also fell, scattered by both the distortion of a microphone as well as the abhorrent background noise present, as someone began to speak, without providing any answers. The Public Relations act went on for quite a while, stressing in the strongest terms both their efforts to ascertain the reasons and motives behind the sudden attack, before turning the vague speech upon it's head, to express condolences for the families of the fallen, and interests in the whole affair quickly fell once more, until the newreader added that they intended to play a short piece of rare footage, of the enemy, no less, with a warning that the following scenes would be disturbing.

It was met with a variety of responses. Mike and Matt, despite their differences, turned their heads about entirely, while Jessica fell against Mike's shoulder, smothering her sight from what was to come in a fashion that did not seem to bother Mike in any way. Sam, Chris and Ashley, on the other hand, made a half hearted attempt to raise their eyes, but with better judgement, decided they had enough nightmares to worry about.

So it was quite understandable that when Matt emitted a quiet 'Jesus' beneath his breath, curiosity got the better of those who had obstructed their gazes, and unthinkingly, they surrendered to instinct, in time to see a man; his age obstructed by the quality of the video, sliding down a wall, to the ground in a crumpled heap. Just ahead of him lay an outstretched arm, concealed by black fatigues, that clutched a guilty pistol, held approximately to where the corpse's head might have once resided. To his surprise, Mike realised that upon closer inspection, the arm in question was actually covered by a complicated pattern of darkened metallic segments, producing, at least in appearance, a formidable body armor, that overlay the black fabric. And despite the hideous, pixelation of the footage from a distance, Mike thought he could make out something upon the rifle. Something circular above the trigger that looked more ceremonial than functional, like an insignia, but the quality defeated him, as the footage panned out, revealing more of the executioner for the public to attack. That is, it would have, had the guilty man decided to not immediately begin stalking off in the opposite direction, leaving only the black cloak draped upon his shoulders for the media to identify him with.

There was more; denunciations of the enemy, warnings of the danger they posed to the public, and more calls to join the army, but by then, the company had decided to move on, before more trauma could be wrought.

* * *

'Interesting,' Chris uttered.

'Alright, what do you want us to see?' Mike asked him in mock exhaustion, leaving Chris slightly bemused at that remark. They were in the van again, devoid of real interesting items to converse about, and of course, Chris had said it at a volume slightly above that of casual interest, and sharing was clearly on his agenda; a motion he quickly lived up to as he cleared his throat.

'It says here that, well, logically at least, the attack that happened yesterday? Absolutely stupid.'

'What?'

'This guy; he's some retired general or something, and he said it was a tactical blunder.'

'Chris,' Mike piped up again, 'not to disrupt your story, but how are you reading that?'

Chris gave an indignant shrug, before answering.

'My phone.'

'Haven't you used up all of your credit or something?' Jessica asked, playing along.

'No, I'm on a data plan. It's a real bargain you know-'

'Alright, alright,' Sam put in, sparing them all another lecture on the wonders of technology, 'so what did this general say?'

'Ex-general, mind you,' he corrected her, without the slightest trace of superiority, 'no, he was saying that from a military standpoint, it just makes no sense.'

'What?' Mike asked in sarcastic disbelief, as he turned around in his chair to face Chris, 'you think 'hit the other guy' would not be a good idea in a fight?'

'It's strategy, man. If you're weak and outnumbered, the only way you beat the other guy is to fight on the ground that suits you.'

'Example?'

'Like an alley,' Matt suggested, perhaps too eager to show Mike up, 'they can't get around you, and they can only face you one at a time.'

'Except these guys; they went and did the opposite. And they still won!'

'Maybe they just did the unpredictable,' Ashley suggested, 'no one thought they would and so they did?'

'Maybe,' Chris conceded, 'but then this guy's saying that now, because they advanced, they're stood on open ground. It's suicide.'

He was met with a blank expression, and Chris had little experience in military matters, yet he felt he had earned an understanding of the topic by reading an article, so he tried again.

'It's like...in a fight, if you were to punch the guy without blocking, you'd get hit in the face.'

'So why not just do both?'

'Oh for the love of the Great Father,' a furious voice snapped from the front, 'forget that gobshite. Basically, when an army's stood still, d'ya think they stand around with their fingers in their arses? No! They dig trenches, set up killzones, heavy weapons, machine guns, yada yada yada. That way, when the other guy comes to turn you into a kebab, you are ready: he's out in the open, you've got several walls to hide behind, and you know how high you need to aim to blow his socks off. You attack, and you lose all those preparations. Your new frontline is the enemy's old one, where all the shit is facing the wrong way. So when they come back for you, you either have to get ready from square one, which takes time mind you, or you stand and fight with your trousers down. Are we clear?'

'Yes,' Ashley replied meekly.

'You seem to know quite a bit about warfare,' Sam suggested, before Stig rounded his head about, eyes narrowed into fine slits, while he continued to drive onward at maybe eighty miles per hour.

'Really, Sammy? Well lass, I'm highly complimented-'

'Watch the road!'

'-but I'm just a simple man exercising the logic of violence.' He seemed to be content with that, and, to the great relief of all those around him, he finally turned back to the front, exhaling one last drawn out breath.

'So why would they even attack?' Ashley asked, desperate to avoid another silence. Interestingly, Stig held his tongue this time. Perhaps he was a little more tolerant of her questions for the trials she had endured in prison, and he took a moment to answer.

'Why do we think in terms of land? Won or lost? Who's to say it's not something else?'

'You think that they wanted something?'

Stig just grunted in reply, sinking that line of conversation.

'What exactly is your take on the war, Stig?' Matt asked.

'My take on the war.' Stig seemed to muse over the question, drawing it out in a most sardonic fashion. 'My take on the war, let's see: I've been shot at on the road by a drone, I've been splattered with someone's blood in a triage center, do you really want me to go on?'

'I meant,' Matt seemed gravely uncertain of his position, but he pushed on after a moment's thought, 'who do you think is winning?'

'No one, of course!'

'Well then, who's loosing?'

'Everyone.'

'This is going to sound really stupid,' Ashley admitted quietly, at a volume kept low enough so that it did not reach the driver's seat, 'but who exactly are 'they'?'

Her friends gave her an incredulous look, and she moved on quickly to elaborate her confusion.

'I mean, they weren't exactly broadcasting the news in solitary. Would you mind, like, bringing me up to speed?'

She was met with silence again, but this time for a very, very different reason, for the simple fact was that no one could truly answer her question. There were many theories on how a rogue military force had wound up on the East Coast, with no flag, and enough weapons to take on the entire USMC. 'Mercenaries' seemed fairly apt, since there were more than a few weapons in the arsenal of the 'enemy' as the news constantly seemed to refer to the foreign force as, and there were many PMCs who had access to equipment beyond that of the regular military. But no one had claimed responsibility, and even a few PMCs themselves had been hurled into the fray, each with less than substantial results. 'Terrorists' was another word, since that was all that seemed to be on the agenda of the media; an execution of unarmed captives, a mother and her children found mutilated in a cellar, the list of atrocities was long, but seemed to garner quite minimal attention for their nature. Why the government had decided to keep the news on a tight leash on the matter of drumming the patriotism obligation into viewers was beyond any who had kept up with events to the East, since it still appeared to be the most effective maneuver in gathering a sizable army of new recruits, eager for blood: to give them something to hate. Something that could be seen as less than human.

Others had their claims as well: some denounced it as a Russian invasion in disguise; a ridiculous notion considering the fact Russia had, as of the previous week, agreed to deploy the Baltic fleet to assist its oldest foe, though that detail had also eluded Ashley's friends. Then there were the outlandish; astrologers or simple conspiracy theorists that insisted it was an alien force that had made landing, but was now locked in a bitter ground war with US troops, or even a splinter special forces brigade from the CIA's clandestine works. Both theories were quickly addressed with all the strength government censorship, and simple logic, had to offer, but they still floated around the airwaves, eager for support in the same way fire awaits oxygen, to fuel it's uncontrollable and indiscriminate rage.

Eventually, Mike decided to try his luck.

'Well, Ash,' he started, 'last I heard, it's a pretty well equipped terrorist group-'

He didn't get any further before a burst of raucous laughter smothered his explanation entirely, and upon turning about to the driver's seat, they found Stig snorting to conceal the hilarity he had found in that declaration.

'What's so funny?'

'Terrorists,' Stig sighed, entirely oblivious to the glances he was getting, 'is that the new name now? Father, they get stupider by the day.'

'Would you know anything about them?'

'I think I would have enough sense to know that terrorists couldn't get their hands on enough weaponry to outstrip the US military,' he cackled, eying Mike in the mirror, 'and I'll be damned before one of those numpties decided to take on a first world military in conventional warfare. Believe me when I say it, the 'enemy', as you call them, are a professional force.'

'But they're on the run right?' Ashley asked. Clearly, she was beginning to regret her questions, and it would have been no surprise to her friends to know that she was scanning the horizon in earnest, as if fearful that any moment, a tank brigade might suddenly roll into view and begin opening fire, as if a $10,000 armor piercing sabot round could be warranted for the destruction of an innocuous van carrying six teenagers, and a middle aged man with serious attitude problems.

'According to this, they will be soon,' Chris answered, falling back into the safety of his phone, 'there's a lot of shit headed their way. I don't think anyone would be eager to stand in front of a tank brigade. Or ten.'

'What was that, Stig?' Sam asked.

'Depends on the one.'


	5. Homecoming

Author's Note: Thanks AWP for the feedback! As for the enemy, I won't give too much away just yet, but don't worry; you'll all be getting accustomed to them very soon. Once again, final warning to canon guys who don't like sci-fi. Next chapter, we're going all in.

* * *

 _This is in case I don't come back. If I'm not back by tomorrow, get this to the Mayor as soon as you can. Too much shit has been going on up here just for coincidence. Ever since the damn kids blew up the lodge on the mountain, and those shady government guys have been coming through here day and night, it's been getting worse by the day. Livestock going missing is one thing, but six hikers in a week is another. And there's enough reports about the lights and suspicious persons around the woods these days; if it continues any longer, we'll all be out the door. So if things go south, you release everything in the archives, including Wells and Caroll. People need to know what's out there. And if the bureaucrats don't do shit about it, burn the damn forest down. All of it._

 _Here's to hoping it's just wolves._

 _Note found on the desk of Deputy Niles Fisher, 12 May 2015, signed Sheriff Annie Cline, Blackwood County Police Department._

* * *

To Sam's eternal dismay, they arrived at derelict bus station, welded onto the base of the mountain like an unwanted tumor, well past nightfall.

She was not alone in her protests of advancing up the mountain until daybreak, but Stig would not be deterred.

'Closest town is on the far side of the mountain,' he said, detaching the key from it's socket with an audible 'click', 'which would take all night to circumvent. It's either that, or we backpedal down the mountain road to the last motel we passed. And that's too far for my liking.'

'And my liking would be to keep my head,' Sam hissed in the same tone, 'we don't even have any fire.'

They had appraised Stig nearer to the mountain as to what lay ahead, but despite passing through several towns, Stig had adamantly refused to halt and purchase the jerry cans of gasoline his passengers had desired, stating it would be 'suspicious' if six teenagers turned up requesting enough fuel to commit the arson of the century. His excuse had been a vague one as always, indicating that he would put in a requisition order for such upon their arrival at the desolate location, but it did little to put the six at ease. Somehow, it was far worse this time, returning in the knowledge of what awaited them in the darkness. Certainly, every memory of Mount Washington was enough to send a shiver up the spine: each time they had walked in the darkness, or frolicked within the lodge, unaware of what lay beyond those wooden walls. To think that death may have come so easily each time provided no ease upon the mind, yet it never occurred to them that they had been happier in the past, ignorant and in a world of bliss, where the largest problem was either a letter attached at the bottom of a test, or the opposite gender.

Thankfully, although perhaps disconcertingly, Stig was not foolhardy enough to send the company marching up the mountain unarmed, with the word 'prey' stenciled into each of their backs, as he waved them over to the back of the van. After collecting their personal belongings from the boot however, he bade them to stay, as he leant into the opening, tinkering with some indistinguishable object near the point where the rearmost met the storage compartment, before he tore aside the fabric that had lined the floor.

It was essentially a small arms locker, stowed where a spare tyre might usually be placed, and more than a few of those present could not help but wonder how on earth such had come to be in Stig's possession, particularly considering the fact they had already been stopped and searched at the Canadian border. True, border security had not deigned to rip apart the entire car, but it was a safe bet that the two guard dogs present would have been able to detect anything untoward in the battered van.

On the other hand, it was hardly a substantial arsenal to hunt a Wendigo. A pair of hunting rifles, that seemed to be missing their barrels, a trio of pistols, and a single AR-15, though it was stripped down to the barest of skeletons, lacking a sight, a foregrip and any visible ammunition.

'This job isn't an office one,' was the only answer Stig provided to the glances he got, before he began distributing the equipment. To the despair of those who knew the mountain's perils all too well, they soon learnt that the AR-15 present was in fact non functional, for it was devoid of both ammunition, and a working firing pin; a detail Stig had blamed on a local gun supplier who would not be receiving any more business from his wallet.

'Is this-' Sam paused, eying the locker with no small degree of scrutiny, 'legal?'

'Hundred percent,' Stig replied. Then, seeing she was entirely unconvinced, he decided to spoil that assertion with a wry grin. 'Depending on the state. Now, to the numbskulls with something hanging between their legs; who can I trust to put a bullet where it needs to go?'

He might as well have struck a bell, for as Jessica had noticed all too well, the combination of men and guns cannot be trusted to produce any result requiring the usage of a brain. And with two rifles, and three men present, not one was willing to be left with a pistol, or worse, nothing. There was something emasculating about that prospect that refused to allow honor to lie down without a fight.

'Shotgun,' Mike called immediately. Simultaneously, Chris and Matt repeated the phrase at vehement volumes. Stig, on the other hand, looked as if he had just watched a monkey walk on stage, perform the opera, before urinating on the conductor. After a haphazard attempt to explain the game to the impatient man, the youths grudgingly resorted to reason, though such was not to say it was of any logic.

'Sam,' Chris implored, 'you saw my shooting; you know I can slot 'em where we need them.'

'Yeah right,' Mike laughed, 'probably two feet away.'

'I got chased by a Wendigo man,' Chris returned, 'that was some snap second shit.'

'And I nearly got killed by a dozen! But I'm still here,' Mike maintained with a proud air, 'cause I know how to keep calm under pressure.'

'Yes, you were certainly calm when I found you,' Sam put in, deflating that Mike's ego as quickly as it had arisen, as she made a fairly decent impersonation of Mike's terror, 'Sam! Save me!'

'I had it under control.'

'Look Mike,' Matt interceded, 'I'm sure you're a good shot, but if we organised things, had a real contest; I'd beat you right back down.'

'Why don't we try?'

'Are they always like this?'

Ashley was a little surprised to find Stig's face barely inches away from her shoulder. There was the same impatience there, but something else resided in that face, she thought to herself. Humor?

'Depends,' she answered carefully, aware that Chris was caught in the mix, 'Mike and Matt haven't always been friends.'

'Aw, ain't that sweet,' Stig cooed; a most discomforting tone for Ashley's ears, 'looking out for Christopher, aren't we?'

'I think they'll make a nice couple,' Jessica added, to Ashley's horror.

'No one said we were going out or anything!'

'Of course not,' Stig replied, unfazed, 'he's just spent the last few months trying to get you out.'

'He-wait, what?'

'They never even let him get close enough to let you know, did they?' He mused to himself, no longer a participant in their conversation. 'Miserable bastards, the lot of them.'

'Common, Ash,' Jessica prodded her, 'you two have had a crush on each other for God knows how long.'

'Life's too short, Ashley,' Sam put in, falling beside them, having exhausted diplomatic options with the trio of egotistical gunslingers in the distance, 'just go for it.'

'You would have thought nearly getting killed beside one another would jolt something into action,' Stig sighed, before he flicked away another spent cigarette, 'Are you lot done yet?'

'No,' Matt replied indignantly, before he realised who he was speaking to.

'Then I'll settle it for you. Mike, Chris, get your arses over here.'

They obeyed, only to have the two rifles in question thrown into their chests.

'Point the barrel at what you want dead.'

'Are you kidding me?'

'Aw, are we upset somebody didn't get the big boy's guns? Well, update time, Matt, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!'

Matt took the hint. In truth, they all knew the weapons were as useful as a snowball when it would come to the Wendigo. There was not a shotgun in sight, and even those had failed to halt one of the rampaging monstrosities. No, the fight had been for the purpose of prestige, ego inflation, and self worth. And after breaking up with Emily, Matt's self confidence had certainly taken a beating. And Mike had offered an old adversary.

But there was something in Stig's tone that advised him against pursuing that course of action any further, and grudgingly, he accepted the pistol.

Sam on the other hand, did not.

'I'm not exactly a soldier,' she protested, but Stig gave her a look that advised her to shut her mouth in a hurry. Truth be told, Sam had to admit, it was probably the safest option. Jessica, although she had improved a long way since their last visit to the mountain, still encountered a degree of trouble with coordinating even the most basic of motor functions since the shock of the incident had set in, and refused to depart, while Ashley's jumpy nature, coupled with her days in solitude, was an accident waiting to happen.

At least in Sam's case, the chances of the gun killing someone of their own party was substantially reduced, though it was not to say their chances of reaching the lodge alive were improved as a result.

'You do know I'm a pacifist, right?'

'Well,' Stig replied solemnly, 'perhaps now would not be the best time to be informing me of such.'

'Yeah right,' Mike snorted, as he made his way to the edge of the road, testing the sights of the weapon as he went, 'that really came across when you came charging at a Wendigo with a spade. I don't think I ever said thanks for that, by the way.'

'It was nothing.'

'Aside from my life. Thank you.'

There was not much Sam could respond with, as Mike made off down the beaten track, with Jessica trailing him like a shadow. And as she went, Sam could not help but notice a strange glance come across Stig's face, as he strapped the final pistol to the side of his leg.

She would blame it on sleep deprivation later on, but for that fleeting second, she could have sworn she found the slightest trace of admiration in those cold eyes.

* * *

The gate was still broken. Of course, with the closure of the property and the police investigation, no one had been contracted to repair a gate in the middle of the wilderness. For a moment, Stig had proposed finding an alternate path through the undergrowth, that circumvented the stone wall, but he was quickly taken aback when he found Mike swing the rifle onto his back, alongside the small backpack he had packed for the journey, and promptly charge at the wall, scaling it in short order.

Matt, not looking to be outdone, quickly followed suite. Chris, on the other hand, bereft of the competitive spirit that seemed to dominate his two peers, adopted a far more cautioned approach. On the far side of the gate, there was the odd shout of encouragement, and a little work on Mike's part to clear the brambles that obstructed the landing from the right wall quickly allowed a second stream of intruders to scale the obstruction in little time, until only Stig and Sam were left on the wrong side.

'I can give you a boost if you want,' Sam suggested.

'Gonna add in an old man comment, too, are we Sammy?'

For a man in his mid forties, there was a spry youth in the manner Stig tackled the wall with the same vehemence demonstrated by those under his charge, and soon, he was back on the ground, well before Sam had even reached the summit of the short peak.

'Show off,' she sighed, a grin contort across her face, when Stig's hand snapped up like a lighting bolt, outstretched with the unmistakable signal to halt.

'What is it?' Chris asked, clearly unnerved by the sudden change in the man's attitude, for the smiles and contests were all but forgotten in Stig's grey eyes.

'We're not alone.'

Those words alone were enough for paranoia to set in. Immediately, Mike's rifle had appeared in his hands, and he jerked it from shadow to shadow, entirely uncertain of which direction in fact played host to a predator. Chris followed him a moment later, and Matt's arms were locked rigid in an iron brace, prepared to withstand the recoil of the pistol in his hands. Even Sam, so usually calm and collected, was unable to halt her hand from straying to her side, where she had holstered the pistol in a convenient pocket at her hip, and without a word exchanged, the group seemed to grow indiscriminately smaller, as it's members huddled together, perhaps of the mind that their hunter might recognise the unsaid law of safety in numbers, and abide to the theory without thought.

But Stig's next command would leave them all confounded.

'Drop the guns. Now.'

* * *

If he had been expecting compliance, he was deeply disappointed. If anything, the instruction had convinced Mike and Chris that the weapons they held offered some true defense against whatever horror dwelt within the night, and they clung to them for life.

So he did the only thing he could.

Sam was still looking at the man in disbelief when he unlimbered the holster on his side. It hit the ground with a soft crunch, as it sank through the uncleared snow, and for a moment, she shied away from the discarded firearm, as if the concussion it had endured might have been sufficient to induce it to belch it's wrath.

But the safety held, and no fire lit up the night, as Stig stepped before Mike and Chris, obstructing their rifles and forcing them to divert the barrels to the ground, lest a nervous hand place a bullet in his back.

Then he held his hands into the air.

'Drop them,' he whispered, shooting them a glance over his shoulder, 'now.'

It took a moment for Mike to take charge.

'This is a horrible idea,' he cursed, before he fumbled with the rifle's sling, succeeded in removing it from his shoulder, and quickly deposited it upon the snow, before he echoed Stig's gesture.

Chris and Sam followed in short order, with a silent prayer upon their lips begging God that Stig knew what he was doing. Somehow, it seemed doubtful that a Wendigo would recognised the universal gesture of surrender, so the only outcome any of them could afford to vest their hope in lay in the vague possibility that maybe, someone else was out there. Someone whose mind had yet to be corrupted by the malignant spirits that called the mountain their home.

' _Quitavre!'_ A voice shattered the silence, yet it was not pronounced at a shout. Rather, it was a well enunciated whisper; one that cleared the intervening space with the full diction of it's initial delivery.

' _Venator!'_ Stig returned at a similar tone, ' _Natus, Viriditus.'_

' _Signum?'_

' _Septimus Filius Fenris.'_

For a moment, there was no reply. Then something moved in the shadows.

It could only be described as a titan, Sam thought to herself. Even at a distance, he seemed too tall to be a man, if it were not for the fact that it stood erect upon its hind legs. Towering over even Stig, who outmatched Mike by an inch or two in height, Sam estimated the their watcher to easily measure at least seven feet, if not more.

And he was a big one. His limbs seemed to equal the the width of the trees around him, although perhaps that was due to the fact she was unable to distinguish where the man ended, and where the cloak began, as the distinctive cloth, torn and ripped in more than a few places, flittered in the wind at his back, as he emerged from the shadows.

Upon his head rested some form of helmet, although it unnerved all who looked upon it, for it fully encased it's master's head, leaving no inkling of the being that lay concealed beneath. And where one might have expected an eye, a screen of maroon filled a thin slit; of the same hue one might find in a clotted scab, leaking only the slightest traces of the unnatural light to it's darkened surroundings.

But most prominently, he had a weapon slung across his arms. A heavy set carbine, by the fact it's barrel seemed dwarfed by the hand it lay connected to yet he was still able to hold it comfortably at hip level.

And of course, there was the slight problem that the said firearm was aimed squarely at her chest.

Stig made a conciliatory gesture, while blabbering in a language she could scarcely understand, but if she were to hazard a guess, she would have presumed that he was attempting to explain their non-hostile intentions.

And that was when she saw it. The matted black plates of alloyed steel, draped over the dark fatigues worn by the sentry.

Right before it emitted a short burst of what could have only been described as laughter, and clasped Stig's hand in a friendly embrace.

Her heart sank.

He was one of them.


	6. Betrayer

Author's note: Thanks for the support so far guys! Sorry this one is a bit late: I'm gonna start releasing these over longer intervals so I can work with each chapter a little more. Thanks again and if you can, drop a review.

* * *

 _Bravo Company Inventory_

 _3 M1A2 Abrams Tanks (Initial count: 14)_

 _8 M1028 canister cartridge rounds (Sidenote: WE NEED MORE OF THESE: Their infantry are annihilating us in the field left right and center!)_

 _14 M908 obstacle removal rounds_

 _62 M830 HEAT rounds (Sidenote: why the hell do we still have these? I haven't seen a single damn tank since we got out here!)_

 _200 50-cal rounds._

 _1600 7.62mm rounds_

 _Requisition request: We need replacement tanks and crews, and some more Anti Personnel options ASAP before the next offensive. Company strength is currently an approximate of 20%._

 _Signed First Lieutenant Harold Dike, acting CO of Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 66th Armored Regiment. Time stamped: Operation Swift Fury plus 1._

* * *

He was still contemplating if the gun was in easy reach when he realised there was a second set of eyes upon him.

Cursing himself for having followed the traitor's direction, Mike could only watch on as the pair seemed to exchange a friendly greeting, shaking one another's hands and clasping the other about the shoulder as if they had known each other all their lives. All the while, he could sights lining up upon his skull. He did not know where it came from, nor how he knew; it was simple instinct; the ubiquitous sensation one could liken to a serpent sliding down one's back when the mind registered another set of pupils assessing its performance, without invitation.

Yet his inability to spot his tormentor nearly proved his bane, for in the vague hope that the watcher's eyes were not directly planted upon his forehead, Mike had begun to sink to the ground; a slow and deliberate motion, as the trigger encased in snow drew closer to his fingertips inch by inch.

'I'd leave it where it lies.'

The words chilled him to the bone, for it's proximity was nearly deafening, despite it providing little more than a whisper. He did not rise immediately, but rather, he shifted his eyes ever so slightly to the left, compelled by the insatiable need to know, that has plagued mankind as long as it's own existence.

What he witnessed nearly prompted him to leap from his skin, before he realised it would have effectively amounted to suicide: the speaker was nearly a clone of the man who had greeted Stig, only, he was far closer; less than six feet away, no less, and Mike found himself pondering on just how he had missed the colossal shadow. And his proximity made him all the more terrifying.

The blackened steel that encased his form left few places to exploit, presuming the fatigues worn by the man were not designed to stop a bullet, although the jointed nature of those plates might have been something he could take advantage of. But something seemed to protrude from the conjoining points in soldier's carapace. To his intrigue, Mike realised it seemed to have a fur like quality, as if he had donned the skin of a wolf atop his fatigues, after it had been dipped in a similarly hued paint to the rest of the uniform.

Upon his chest, furthermore, there was a crude insignia stamped into the iron, although unlike every medal he had seen in the past, this one reflected no light, nor in fact possessed any colour at all; the only reason he had noticed it in the first place was because it was not on the same level of the rest of the chest piece. It was as if someone had produced the sigil upon a separate sheet of darkened steel, before it had been welded upon his breast, producing shadows of it's own, that acted to denote it from it's sister plate beneath.

The design itself was a crude one; a broken skull, with a short blade pinned through it's shattered scalp. And it's jaw seemed to clasp another sheet: the outline of some parchment, perhaps, with a series of letters stenciled into it's design. _Nav Quam Penitent_ , it seemed to read.

Most peculiar was the fact this one had yet to even draw his gun at Mike's transgression. The compact, box shape on his thigh that Mike could only assume to be the holster of a pistol was still fully occupied, as he simply stood there, with folded arms.

Then the blade appeared.

It was impossible to denote where it had come from; one minute his palm had been empty, the next, a short blade, maybe twice the length of one's fully extended hand, was held tightly in a fist. In the same instant, Mike lost all interest in recovering his only means of protection.

For all intents and purposes, their captors could have easily gunned them down to a man, and no one would be the wiser of their unfortunate fate.

But it was not to be.

'Sterodius,' Stig shot, catching the swordsman's eye, 'they're not hostile.'

'They're human,' the voice behind the helm blared, thick with mechanical distortion that made his voice closer to that of a devil than a man, 'there's reason enough.'

'They're the ones Praetorius wants,' Stig replied, seemingly unfazed by the hostility he faced, 'you cut them up, you can explain to the Fieldmaster why his company's missing their heads in two days time.'

There was a terse glance that passed between the pair, and Mike was left wondering for the moment if Stig had just succeeded in condemning them all to death, fearing his partner might suddenly just slay them all out of simple spite.

But nothing was to come of it, as the blade wielding sentry simply grunted in reply, before slipping the blade back out of sight and turned about, stalking off back into the dark.

'Is Watcher secure?' Stig returned to the first man, still in english.

His friend simply blurted a reply in the same foreign dialect, before gesturing back to the half dozen he had at his back.

'It's fine, Servus,' he said, shooting them another look, 'they're with us.'

There came no reply; only a stiff nod, and as quickly as they had appeared, the two spectres were gone from sight, fading into the night with such ease that for a moment, Mike could have sworn to have witnessed a ghost.

He was still staring when Stig shook him roughly over the shoulder.

'Hey, you still here? Get your shit, and follow me.'

* * *

It was Sam who posed the obvious question, as they followed the twisting trail to the cable car station.

'You knew they were up here, didn't you?' She asked, accusation ridden within her soft voice, 'you're one of them, aren't you?'

'What gave it away?'

'Why are you helping them?' she pressed on, casting a cautionary look over her shoulder. One never knew when a pair of scarlet lenses might appear, behind a matted gunsight, after their impromptu meeting with the cloaked figures at the gate, and her hand crept all the closer to the pistol's grip.

'Well I joined them,' Stig offered carelessly, before he realised his error, and he moved to elaborate before he could be accused of treason, 'five years ago, that is.'

'You expect us to believe you?'

'Well,' Stig considered, biting his lip, 'you did before. And mind you, I haven't exactly lied to you. Just...omitted a few details, here and there.'

'And you didn't think it would be important to let us know we'd be committing treason by coming back here?' Mike snapped. Now that Sam had opened the topic to scrutiny, every one was ablaze with their own inquiries, but Mike's had returned each to a somber realisation. 'I mean, if we help you, we're essentially criminals!'

'That's if they find out you were helping us,' Stig enunciated carefully, politically ignoring the blazing eyes boring into the back of his head, 'And let's be realistic; they got a war to win. What will they care about a bunch of teens on a mountain, exorcising a demon?'

'They will the ones they're at war with are the one's we're helping!' Mike retaliated, 'fuck, man, I knew this was a horrible idea. We should just get out of here, before-'

'Hey, hey, hey,' Stig said, without the slightest trace of concern for the fact he was currently speaking to half a dozen furious young men and women, with four firearms between them, 'let's back up maybe three thousand steps before we go doing anything rash, eh? First off, I don't even want to be out here, alright? None of us do. Not you, not me, not Praetorius, not Servus, hell, I could spend the night listing off the people who'd rather be elsewhere. But there's bad shit out here. Bad shit that will, if left unchecked, spread. And kill, and maim, and kill again. Is any of this going through to you?'

Mike fought down the urge to give any affirmation on that account.

'Secondly, I hate to admit it, but you ain't got much of a choice in the matter anymore, you understand? You know we're up here now, so until we're done here, you might as well call this place your home.'

'Oh, now you're taking the piss,' Mike protested, 'I say we get out of here right fucking now.'

'Believe it or not,' Stig began, 'I've actually grown slightly attached to you lot. A bit like a mangy stray dog you couldn't shake on your way from work; you don't know what the hell it is about him, but you don't want him to stick his head in a food processor, so I'll it down for you straight. You turn around, and you'll be dead before you can get back over that wall.

'Is that a threat?'

'A plausible outcome,' Stig answered indifferently, 'we can't let anyone know we're up here. If JSOC catches even the slightest hint of our presence here, they'll level the place completely. And that's a risk I can't take.'

'So what? You'll shoot me?' Mike didn't even flinch as he spat it in Stig's face.

'I won't. But Sterodius will.'

'You know what?' Mike sighed, looking to his friends for support, 'I'm just sick of this place. Sick and tired of this damn mountain haunting me in my sleep. And you know what? I couldn't give a rat's ass if they nuked it!'

'You think a nuke will solve your problems? You think spirits give a shit for radiation? The government couldn't give a damn for the Wendigo until it's on their front porch! Praetorius, he's a different story; he's done this shit before! But if you want to go and compromise him, I can assure you death will be around the next corner.'

'So what? You're kidnapping us?'

'That's a bit rich. Call it an alliance of convenience. You know it as well as I do that the big shots in charge couldn't be trusted to know what to do with a bunch of albino freaks with big teeth!'

'And how would you?' Asked Sam, 'you're no different. What the hell happens to us after we help you? You gonna to kill us?'

'Honor's debt will be paid,' Stig replied cryptically. 'Once the curse is gone, it doesn't matter if they know we're here. Once it's gone, you'll be homeward bound.'

'How do you expect us to trust you?'

'Oh, Sammy, believe me. You will.'

* * *

The rest of the trek was made in relative silence, save for the soft crunch of snow underfoot. No one spoke, understandably, as the slow realisation of reality began to take hold. The distance from the wall was too short to properly converse any attempt to withdraw, and the thought of those black uniformed sentries proved greater than the nerve to elude fate.

Somehow, their capacity as marksmen never seemed a question in the minds of the returning company. Something in the mind had a tendency to inexplicably connect the ability of stealth with one's capacity to put a lead projectile between another's eyes.

That said, no one was entirely pleased with the recent turn of events. Being informed of the necessity to remain on a cursed mountain for indefinite period of time with a band of foreign soldiers currently at war with one's own country, on pain of death noless, rarely did much to improve one's mood when they were already searching for a friend who, for all intents and purposes, could either rejoice at their arrival, or turn into the next Norman Bates before attempting to introduce them to the pointed end of a bloody knife.

So perhaps it was a blessing that the next face they met was a friendly one. Or at least, it was one that did not greet them instinctively with a weapon in hand.

' _Venator!_ ' the voice had shouted, as they entered the clearing beside which the cable car station was based, 'welcome back to the blacksite.'

'Novus Callus, it's good to see you again, Hunter.'

Sam's eyes had snapped up almost immediately at the sound, half expecting a skeletal creature to come bearing down upon her face at any moment. Instead, she was greeted by another one of the dark clothed uniforms, descending down from the station's steps, only this one seemed, friendlier.

'Who's this?'

'Uh, let's see; Mike, Jess, Sam, Chris, uh, Ash, and Matt,' he identified, picking out each face with an outstretched finger as he turned back to the six friends. 'this is Novus Callus. Owner of the biggest foot and mouth in the entire Fifty Ninth Shadow Guard.'

'He's just a little bit bitter,' Callus replied easily, eying the newcomers. 'It seems I've usurped his rightful place.'

Callus was by no means ordinary. In fact, the easy tone seemed most peculiar when one considered the fact that he was an exact replica of the grim faced Sterodius they had all encountered earlier, and his voice was still filtered through the grim voice changer that the sentries had used earlier. That said, there were a few noticeable differences Sam could identify. Callus' suit of interlocked armored pieces seemed to be...cleaner than that of his brother in arms, and the fur lining had yet to be attached to the fatigues that ran exposed between each segmented plate. His cloak was still more or less intact, whilst the others had clearly seen better days, marked with rents and tears as they were, but aside from that, there was little she could have used to separate him from the impatient guards at the main gate; he stared back through the same maroon coloured eye slits, that concealed even his eyes from the assessment of sight. For all she knew, Callus could have been an old man, missing both his eyes and his hair, although his voice suggested otherwise.

'So why exactly did Viriditus drag you lot up here? Sightseeing?'

'They're here to make sure we're the hunters this time.'

'Ah, so you're the ones Praetorius wants to see,' he mused idly, 'mind you, you might want to give that meeting a bit of time, if you know what's good for you. He hasn't been taking it so well since we-'

'Nip it, Callus!'

Despite towering over the man who had brought them back to the mountain, Callus promptly clamped up, appearing suitably chastised before his mouth evidently developed a mind of it's own.

'Well, there I went again. Never could shut up, could I?'

'Not even if I buried you seven feet deep,' Stig replied in the same tone, before he let a wry grin pass across his face, 'Watcher Two is manned?'

'Yeah it's manned. Mallus, Cornelius and Itrinus are holding the fort. Last radio check said they're just putting down the motion spines.'

'Callus?'

'What? Oh, right. You lot didn't hear any of that.'

Sam, for the most part, was lost as to how she was supposed to respond. Somehow, Callus had managed to defy every expectation of someone who wore an insignia of a cracked skull on his chest.

'You calling the carriage?'

'Yeah, I signalled it when Sterodius spotted you on the outskirts. It should be here soon. You lads and lasses want to get out of the cold? Heard humans don't take too well to subzero temperatures.'

'Why exactly do you keep referring to us like that?' Jessica blurted out before she could stop herself, 'aren't you...you know? Human too?'

Callus gave Stig a pained look.

'Ah, Viriditus, what did you get yourself into?'

* * *

'You have to understand,' Stig started, once he had gotten them each settled down in the relative shelter offered by an open cable car station on the windswept mountain, 'There are some things that you just don't tell people when you first meet them-'

'Can we just cut the bullshit, man?' Matt interjected, cutting him off, 'what the hell are you people?'

'Guardsman of the Fifty Ninth Guard, Shadow Regiment. Most of us are Korai, from Titan IV, though you do get the odd transfers in from around the Council.'

'Titan?' Mike asked, 'Ten bucks says that ain't in Stockholm.'

'Heima system. Two jumps out from the Arche sector, if you want to be exact.'

'Wait, wait, wait.' Stig fell silent at Ashley's rapid fire demands, awaiting the inevitable, though it took more than a moment for the thought to be translated into speech. 'Are you really saying you're...you're-'

'Alien?' Stig shrugged, as if it meant naught. 'Matter of perspective. You all look a little bit odd yourselves, if you ask me.'

Ashley's jaw nearly hit the floor, and Chris inadvertently seized her by the shoulders, as if he were fearful she might suddenly lose all control of her legs. It was hardly an unfounded fear; after three months in lockup, it all seemed like a dream. Her friends inexplicably arriving upon her doorstep to break her out of hell on earth, before it slowly descended back into the nightmare; it was all too much, and she expected to awaken any second; back in a padded cell, where the only company would exist at the very heart of cold, distant memory.

Others, though, were not so easily convinced. Matt looked unfazed, clearly perceiving it all to be some ill-thought joke, while Mike seemed to eye the strange man through a sidelong stare, uncertain if anything that left his mouth could be taken for fact.

'Then why do you look like one of us?' Jessica asked half heartedly. She had tried to add a slightly impish element to the question, in an effort to defuse the situation, as well as convince herself of what she wanted to believe, but something about Stig's savaged grin broke the effort halfway through her delivery, leaving the challenge as a simple question as she tailed off, entirely uncertain once again.

'You saying that ain't your body?' Chris asked, disbelief laden in his tone, 'whaddya do? Body Snatching?'

'Nothing quite so crude,' Stig replied. At least, they hoped it was Stig who said that, because mid-sentence, that free and uncaring tone had started to dissipate, crackling and distorting until it very much resembled the robotic monotones of his comrades in arms.

In the same moment, he seemed to flicker, and shimmer, as if some invisible barrier that surrounded him had been hammered with an unseen force. To her astonishment, Sam watched the air that had previously surrounded him begin to shift as well, as the light began to bend unevenly, until it seemed like she was viewing him through a prism, where the lines and scars upon the cement at his back no longer aligned with one another.

Then the light peeled away entirely, revealing the titan beneath.

Ashley let out a short scream, though to her credit, she was able to suppress it quickly. Matt let out an exclamation of his shock, and he, alongside with Mike, who had proven to be positioned closest to their mysterious contact, leapt back with all haste, seeking to put as much distance between themselves and the cloaked monstrosity.

Like the others, he easily towered over them. The air above him was removed to reveal a helmet like the others; grim and undecorated in it's simple unpolished finish, like that of a fallen knight. His limbs were clothed in the steel plate they had witnessed before, and the black cloak worn by each of the shadows outside seemed to unravel from his back as the air continued to flicker out of existence, until the illusion had concluded its demise.

'What the hell was that?'

'Holographic mimic,' the figure replied, bereft of any humanity, 'brainchild of a Nius Caius; Master of Shadows in the Twenty Third Legion.'

'Well holy shit,' Chris muttered beneath his breath, quite unable to subdue his own amazement, before he realised the chances of his acquisition of the gadet were practically aligned with his chances of getting of the mountain alive.

To his eternal surprise, Stig waved a small contraption before his eyes; it's appearance made all but a blur with the briefness of which it was held within his sight.

'It's all yours,' Stig said. For a moment, no one moved. Then he spoilt the effect somewhat, and if he were still human, they all could have sworn he would have been that same wry smile, as it disappeared again behind his back.

'If you're still alive when when this is all over.'

* * *

The silence was becoming unbearable, Sam decided. She, Mike and Ashley were all crammed into the small space available within the cable car, alongside their seven foot captor, as they were taken upwards, in defiance of the laws of gravity, toward the summit they had once strove to escape. The weight limit of the car had defied any effort to get them all up in a single journey, and so Stig had selected the three of them to accompany him on the first run, before he would double back to retrieve the last trio of the friends.

It was likely due to the fact the car still had doors, though Sam was uncertain if she would have tempted fate so much as to take a plunge out the cable car's doors, had Stig not been present to dissuade her from the beginning. Somehow, left with the choice between the options of collaboration, escape at a later date, or breaking one's legs to await the wolves and other predatory denizens of Blackwood Mountain, the latter seemed the least preferable.

But Stig must have either attempted such himself some time previously, or borne witness to a similar desperation in the past, for his eyes were not removed from any of them throughout the entire journey.

Neither did Ashley remove her own eyes from the soldier, for her part. Shock had been replaced by intrigue, and, now convinced that death was not on the immediate agenda, she seemed unable to take her eyes away from the scarred suit of steel, her eyes noting each and every tear in the fabric; every rent in the alloy, trying to discern what course of events lay behind each injury visited upon the self professed Guardsman. There were more than a few to keep her occupied, though perhaps of particular interest, Sam noticed that on the occasions she allowed herself a direct view upon Stig's eyes, they were either centered upon her own being, or Mike's, who was being perhaps too obvious in his plotting to elude the self professed xeno. Never once did he meet Ashley's eyes directly.

Perhaps it was because he knew it would only terrify her all the more. Perhaps he had decided she had endured enough.

Or maybe, the cynical but logical side of Sam's mind suggested, he simply did not perceive her to be a threat.

After all, she did not exactly have a gun on her.

It had amounted to no short amount of amazement that Stig had insisted they keep their firearms before they had boarded the cable car, but elsewhere, his considerations were elaborate, if cruel.

He had fiercely vetoed Jessica's request to journey up the mountain with Mike, as well as Chris' insistence to accompany Ashley, and Sam was beginning to make sense of the cruel logic behind it. Although the thought of leaving any of their number behind on a mountain with cannibalistic creatures was already a strong enough argument to remain behind, Stig was clearly taking no chances. By separating up the closest of the band, he at least reduced the chances of their other half wandering off into the woods in his absence, if Callus didn't stop them, or worse, Sterodius and Servus.

But the journey was a long one, and the awkward silence was driving her mad. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that they had, only a couple of hours ago, been on relatively friendly terms with an alien, and she tried to remind herself of that fact as she opened her mouth to speak.

'Why exactly are you here?'

'Well,' Stig replied, carefully considering his words, 'we drove out here.'

'Ha, ha. I meant the war. I thought you were being a little tight lipped on it earlier.'

'Well congratulations, Sherlock. Well, if you must know, it's quite a tale if you haven't heard it yet, and I don't want to be repeating it to those who ain't present.'

'Is there a short version?' She pressed, trying to salvage the conversation.

'Can you summarize the meaning of life in a sentence?'

'If you use a lot of commas.'

'Nearly made me laugh,' Stig sighed, shifting his seating ever so slightly. 'For now at least, I'll say this: no need to worry about armageddon, or abductions or - what the hell did they call it? Probing? This ain't a science mission, not that I've ever been involved in that shit. The Fifty Ninth is a strictly military regiment.'

'What exactly do you look like?' Ashley suddenly piped up, 'I mean, why do you wear that?'

She made a vague gesture at the armored suit to indicate her point, and Stig's eyes dropped, trying to discern what she was speaking of before he emitted a slight chuckle. That is, it begun as a chuckle, but through the vocal distortion unit, it seemed more akin to that of a horse's snort.

'I'm afraid I couldn't take this off even if I wanted to, Ash.'

'You don't mean-'

'No, I'm not sealed in it; that came out wrong. No, it's one of moral obligation, let's call it. Council Doctrine prohibits us from, you know, showing non-Council species the truth behind the helmet.'

'Why?'

'Psychological shit,' Stig tried, 'there's an element of mystery that the Guard prefer to maintain, if you understand. People see what's underneath, you get all kinds of different nicknames you know? Squid face, pincers, crab, to name a few of the things I think you lot would come up with. You remove that, there's...detachment from the mortal. People know you as the Black Cloaks, and that's that. At least that way, they tend to run away a bit more; saves the trouble of killing a bunch of kids who joined up thinking they could kill something that looked more like a bug than a spectre, you understand?'

Ashley nodded her understanding, though that did not mean she was satisfied, much to Sam's relief. She had feared initially that the trauma would have simply shut her up in her head, and every foray she made back into the world of the living could only herald improvement.

'I mean Stig, you couldn't, make an exception, or something?'

'In time,' Stig conceded gently, 'when you've earned the right. And Ash, something you should all know, my name ain't really Stig. It's Viriditus. Natus Viriditus.'

'Why the deception earlier?'

'There aren't many people on the American continent with names like Viriditus, don't you think Ashley? Too suspicious.'

'That's a shame,' Mike sighed, evidently having come to the same conclusion Sam had arrived at nearly ten minutes ago, that had convinced her that jumping was an unhealthy proposal, 'Stig was easier to pronounce.'

'It's just Viriditus.'

'Viriditus,' Sam repeated, earning an encouraging glance from a nearly demonic figure.

'See? Easy as that.'

'Why just not Nat?' Mike proposed. Then, seeing the glare that was provided from the Black Cloak's direction, he moved to defend the proposal. 'I mean, it's short for Natus, right?'

Something in that unflinching stare should have told him he had failed to impress.

'Viriditus is fine.'

* * *

They docked in at the second station without incident, mainly due to the fact that the station's door, which acted to prevent the uninvited from breaching the mountain should they have somehow acquired the keys to the cable car, but not the upper station, was no longer present. Stig, or Viriditus as they now knew him to be, did not seem fazed that the heavy set door was now lying on it's side maybe six feet away from where it had once obstructed Sam and Chris on their ascent, nor by the jagged indentations torn into its flank.

When Sam voiced her concerns, he simply shrugged.

'That was us. Solveris was a little bit too eager to get out. Now let me just find Mallus, before he decides you're up to no good.'

They found him shortly. That is to say, Viriditus found him, nestled beneath his cloak, amidst a snowdrift that the three friends would have easily taken for a little area where it had snowed perhaps harder than the norm. But as soon as his eyes had fallen upon the little ridgeline in the snow, Viriditus had taken off upon a straight path for it, before unceremoniously rapping an armored gauntlet upon it's length.

To their eternal surprise, the snow drift did not explode, despite the fact that peculiar spot Viriditus had decided to hammer proved to be the exact same location Mallus' head occupied. The snow had abated slightly, revealing a trace of black cloth, before a few words had been exchanged between the pair in the same foreign tongue, at a volume that left little to be ascertained at such a distance.

'You fellas just flake out here,' their accomplice had instructed them when he returned, 'I'm just going to get the rest of the gang and we'll be off for the lodge.'

'The lodge?'

'I guess it beat hanging out in the cold; Praetorius seems to have set up the CP there, so that'll be our waypoint. Until I get back, try not to do anything stupid?'

With that, he was gone.

'Well,' Mike started, as they made their way over to the snow encrusted bench that sat upon the station's veranda, 'this is not how I thought I'd be spending my weekend.'

'I think we're all in the same boat there, Mike,' said Sam, resting her back upon one of the wooden supports that upheld the extended roof, but as soon as she did, the building began to express it's age with a soft creak, and she promptly leapt away, before she brought the structure down, 'Jez, I did not think we'd see this place again.'

'Why are we even here?' Ashley's voice seemed hollow and frail; distant once again, 'I mean, what are the chances he's still alive?'

Someone should have berated her, but neither did. Sam would not threaten her with confrontation, and Mike was unusually reserved on the matter, as he watched the shadows close in around them, clearly unnerved by the entire night.

He had watched Hannah, or what had once been Hannah, drag Josh away. Screaming and clawing at her skeletal remains through the mud and mire, and he had done nothing. There had been no impulse to dive out and retrieve him from the monster's claws. By the time he had finished tearing across the Sanitorium and plunging into the bowels of the earth, Michael Munroe had simply snapped. It had been so easy to write him off as 'dead', considering how the stranger, that had saved their lives that evening, had informed them all of the Wendigo's feeding habits.

Mike was no hero, and he would be the first to admit it. It was a cruel game of survival upon the mountain top; it was what had driven him, in a bout of survivalism intermixed by paranoia and fear, to come so close to taking Emily's life.

It was only in the lodge, when Sam, despite having a clear run to the door, choose to stand rather than leave him to his fate that the insatiable guilt began. It was a hideous feeling; the kind that tore at the gut with sharpened digits day and night. Too many times had he seen Josh's face in his sleep, as he screamed his name, begging him to help as he hid, cringing in the darkness.

Had she left him, he would have understood entirely. He would have forgiven her. But in saving him, Sam had unwittingly destroyed Mike's conscience. He was not ungrateful, no, but memory begged the question of why he had been unable to find his voice in the mines. Why he had been unable to deliver Josh from a horrible fate, and what changed the situation so much so that Sam had been able to do the same, and live to tell the tale.

And now that he was alive, Mike feared the day as much as he feared the night. What accusations would come when they finally found him? What vengeance would the friend he failed pursue?

In a odd way, and he so hated himself for even registering the thought; it was easier when he knew Josh to be dead.


	7. Predators

_Hunt or be hunted. Fate will have it's dues._

 _First code of the Council's Hunters; the Trial of the Dark._

* * *

Despite the hundreds of infinitely disastrous outcomes that could have taken the course of reality, as they awaited the return of the cable car, nothing transpired. Time and time again, aware of the horrors that awaited them, the trio of friends that had been unceremoniously deposited outside the relay station had leapt at the shadows, fearing the worst. Whether it it would be Josh, dragging himself through the pristine snow, calling their names as he pawed at the gaping wounds and gashes across his side a yellow eyed wolf snarling and unable to discern hunter from prey amidst it's insatiable hunger, or worse, a hundred and forty or so pounds of skeletal bone and sinew, screaming for their demise with outstretched claws held out for a final embrace before death would take it's course; all of these seemed to appear amid the spectral shadows, and none would materialise, fearful of stepping into the moonlight. Content to prowl and watch, for now at least.

In fact, Sam could have nearly celebrated when the lonely carriage redocked with the station they had decided to call their temporary residence, even though, for all intents and purposes, he had effectively kidnapped them, and to her horror, Sam wondered if the Stockholm syndrome was already setting in. She decided against it; for all intents and purposes, it would have been no different if the US government had forced them to return to the scene to aid investigators, had they in fact wanted an investigation. In that event, it would have been labeled cooperation, as opposed to abduction.

At least, that was what she hoped, though it was not reciprocated by everyone. The decision to rid them of their phones was not a very popular one, especially with Chris. But like always, Chris' temper was attached to a long fuse, with little explosive force, and his opposition to the plan was quickly overcome on Viriditus' grudging promise to reimburse him at a later date, along with the ever present threat posed by an armed soldier.

After another brief conversation with an increasingly irritated Mallus, who had in fact relocated, without their knowledge, to a new observation post at the very foot of the station, for the sole purpose of retaining the element of surprise should an unwanted intruder burst into the area; an advantage that was being sorely tested each time Viriditus took the time to point out with a tap on the head, they took the road toward the peak. Or at least, they had begun to follow the path abruptly disappeared.

'Did an avalanche occur here?' Mike asked, clearly in awe at the clean destruction, 'I mean, the bridge used to be here.'

'Depends,' the Guardsman replied without turning around, 'you including the 'natural disaster' in the definition?'

'You mean you did this?' Chris gave it another glance. Truth be told, it was not the most substantial snowslide one might have seen on the mountains, for Mount Washington was not of significant height to attain a perennial snowfall, and the snow had not accumulated to such a vast quantity that it had made significant headway down the mountain, to the small hamlets below. But where it had succeeded was in achieving the absolute burial of the small covered bridge that had once provided access across a shallow ravine; the same bridge where Mike had spent the more than a few minutes crouched in the rafters three months ago, awaiting a potential victim, unaware of the horrors that would follow.

'We tried to bring the Omens into the area,' Viriditus explained, gesturing vaguely at the carnage, 'if you've seen rotary winged aircraft in action, well, the air displacement beneath the transport can be a bit, violent, at times.'

'So then how can we get around it?' Sam asked, falling to a knee as she surveyed the site below them. The snow bank off to the left, where the avalanche had come from, was far too great in gradient to scale, and she had little doubt that attempting to wade across the uncompacted snow would make for a logistical nightmare in it's own right.

Perhaps not for her, she admitted, plus Mike and Matt were of fit condition, but Jessica and Ashley would struggle over the top.

Viriditus seemed in fair agreement, though once again, his reasoning of practicality differed severely from Sam's.

'We can circumvent it if we follow the gorge,' he pointed out, 'the slide practically filled the damn place up, and at least we won't be out in the open.'

'Won't get warmer amongst those trees,' Mike noted.

'I wasn't talking about the elements. Among the trees at least, we'll have some cover.'

'You expecting to get shot up here?' Chris snorted, failing entirely to lighten the mood. Somehow, a serial killer with a rifle would have been preferable to something that would flay the unfortunate victim alive, with it's own hands as its instrument of choice.

'Just keep quiet,' he instructed them, taking the lead once more, 'predators tend to follow game trails on a parallel axis. And this road might as well be the largest on this mountain. Expect contact.'

'Are we being a little pessimistic then?'

'You expect the worse; you'll never be disappointed with Fate.'

They worked their way down into the gully without incident, but the foliage presented it's own problem.

After a night on the mountain, discretion seemed the prefered course by all those present, but simple caution could not teach one every aspect of concealment. Despite his admonishments with each snapped twig they left in their wake, Viriditus did not seem to be able to stem the tidal wave of sound that continued to ripple off the small band of survivors. They were small flaws for the most part; a foot placed on a drier piece of snow, a careless head knocking against a snow laden twig suspended in the air, or more commonly, a piece of clothing; usually the arms, catching upon an inconvenient network of naked branches, but the decision of calamity to arrive at one's doorstep rarely falls upon a single, momentous point of existence: it is too often the small and trivial affairs that shape the future to come.

And they were making many small errors.

Perhaps that was why it should have been no surprise when they heard the screech.

'Please tell me you heard that,' Ashley shuddered, 'I'm not going crazy right?'

'Oh, shit,' Mike stammered raising the rifle to bear, 'this isn't good.'

'Shut up. All of you, right now. Something's out there.'

'No shit,' Matt whispered, 'this ain't going to end well-'

He was cut off by the roar. Foliage was crushed underfoot, something was breathing heavy and hard as it approached, and the roar drew nearer.

It was no Wendigo.

'Bear!' Sam cried out, giving them all sufficient warning to the threat as it lumbered into the clearing, but as to what they were supposed to do with that warning, no one could say for sure.

The Grizzly was wounded, badly, on that account. It's flanks were strafed by blood, and large rents had been torn across it's hide. It's claws were reddened as well, though some appeared to have been broken by some immense force. But it's blood still ran hot, and seeing seven new beings challenging it's presence upon the mountain, it resorted to desperation.

Mike was the first to see what was about to transpire.

'Move!' he screamed at the top of his lungs, 'move!'

By chance, Chris, who was still mesmerised by the brutal demonstration of over two hundred kilograms of muscle and fur to consider his own personal safety, happened to stand in Mike's path. A firm grasp upon his shoulder dislodged him from the apparent bout of hypnosis, and he promptly fell in line with Mike, as they dragged themselves for the treeline. Matt did his best to drag Ashley aside, but the poor girl was simply rooted to the spot, and the two of them, off balance by the entire affair, fell to the ground in a heap, only inches away from the bear's predicted path. A correction that could be made easily by the berserk animal.

Sam's success with Jessica was even less so. Not possessed by the same hormonal mantle that drove boys to commit to the dangerous and dramatic, she had tried to simply lead Jessica out of the way by her arm. But that had presumed Jessica would move upon her own volition.

She, like any normal person faced with death staring into her eyes, did not, as she simply froze, forcing Sam to double back, seizing her by the shoulders, before the bear was onto them. How pathetic, she thought to herself, that they'd return expecting a nightmare, only to be mauled to death by a bear.

And then the air was alive with curses.

' _Solveris!_ ' Viriditus was screaming. 'Sam, get her out of the way!'

Despite herself, Sam tore her eyes back to the murderous mass of fur, only for her jaw to drop.

The Guardsman had not moved out of the monster's path. If anything, he had run right into the marauding bear as its forelegs had departed the ground, with naught but a short, unreflective blade in his right hand. While it was certainly no butter knife, it was hardly a sword, much less a pike: if it were placed against his elbow, it would not even extend past the wrist.

She had no idea what the idiot was thinking. If he had planned to tackle it to the ground, he had miscalculated to terrific proportions, since the bear had simply knocked him to the ground in one fell swoop, and was now attempting to rake its claws across the pinned Guardsman's chest. And yet, he wasn't dead. It was unbelievable, as she watched the Black Cloak, roaring at an equal volume to his feral opponent, ram the blade hard through the bear's underarm.

In the same moment, the bear's claws tore a long gash across the black plate. Then, battling through the pain it felt amidst it's berserk rage, the bear opted to abandon fineness, as it simply leapt down upon him, aiming to crush the pinned Guardsman like the upturned beetle he was.

One of its limbs landed upon his left arm, and simply crushed it on the spot. Sam tore her eyes off the spectacle as the metal buckled, somehow praying that it was not to be.

It's second forepaw landed upon his chest, and began to tear for his throat.

Then, a new warrior joined the bout.

* * *

The first inkling Mike received of the third combatant was when something literally threw him against a tree, as it thundered by. He had not even heard it before it had carelessly fired him like a ball bearing against the obstructive trunk, but by God it was fast!

When his eyes returned to the scene, everything had changed.

It was a wolf; a grey one at that, and for a moment, he was tempted to believe it was the one that had spared him from death within the Sanitorium at the cost of it's own life. But this one was far larger than any wolf he had ever witnessed in the past, nearly equalling the bear itself in size.

And in strength, as it rammed the titanic beast squarely in the side, propelling it off the crippled Guardsman in the blink of an eye. Then it was onto the Grizzly, it's talons ripping the thick fur apart, and exposing the flesh and tendon beneath, as it's jaws separated at the sight of fresh meat.

But it did not feed; the grey snout simply dove down, into the bear's face, and depressed the muscular trigger on the springtrap that controlled its jaws.

As the toppled bear's underside was exposed to Mike, who had dove to the left with Chris in hand, he was spared the full sight of what occurred upon the bear's face, but judging from Jessica's shriek and Sam's awful wretch, it must have been suitably horrific.

It's movements growing weaker with every second blood emptied from its veins, the blind, savaged Grizzly was all but dead when the wolf split it's gut with a single sweep across it's matted belly.

Then it turned it's eyes upon him. Calculating. Weighing the risk posed by a lanky twig against it's hunger.

Hunger won.

* * *

'Solveris! Don't!'

Chris was certain he was about to die when the wolf unexpectedly dropped out of the air. It had already begun it's fatal leap forward when the voice stopped it, and all tension within those powerful hind legs departed, forcing an untimely end to the coup de grace. Off balance by the sudden change in instinct, the wolf tumbled forward slightly, but to it's credit, recovered with almost immediate, feral grace, only allowing the foremost sections of it's paws to hit the snow before stalking away again, to the mayhem before them all.

It took all the nerve of those present to stop themselves from pulling the trigger as they took aim upon the overgrown lupine. Mike and Chris, being under the most severe threat, had in fact pulled the trigger themselves, though it seemed fate had delivered them from what would have undoubtedly proven a disaster, likely involving some missing limbs. Both had simply provided a dull 'clack' of metal, and little else. The wolf had heard the threat, and for a moment raised it's head, but then, content of its security in the ineptitude of its hunters, it simply turned away, probing at the fallen Guardsman upon the ground.

Of course, Sam was the first to abandon the security of distance. Careful to holster the gun she disdained, her advance was greeted by a warning growl from the deep belly of the wolf.

'Easy, Solveris,' Viriditus cautioned the mighty hound, before the rest of his sentence was lost in a garbled ennunciation of pain, as he doubled forward, clasping the shattered arm at his side.

'Viriditus,' Sam whispered, careful not to provoke the animal, 'your arm-'

'Is fixable,' he grunted, 'Great Father, that was stupid.'

He seemed to be fumbling for something on the wolf's side, and it was then that Sam realised a piece of fabric had been knotted to the wolf's left foreleg. It was almost like an armband, with consideration for the fact that the muscled trunk was a great deal larger than most men, and a compartment seemed to have been strapped or adhered upon the said apparatus. As he worked, the wolf seemed to emit a low rumble, shifting it's head to the Guardsman, but other than that, it appeared entirely at ease, as Viriditus finally produced a small silver vial from the bag's contents. His movements were becoming more erratic by the second, and Sam could only guess that the shock from the tremendous blow was starting to catch up.

'You need a hand?'

'Stupid cap,' the Guardsman was muttering under his breath. He did not hear Sam's inquiry until the wolf emitted a second warning, and sank lower into the snow, as if preparing itself to bound forward yet again. Sam promptly halted a second time.

'Can you get the bloody cap off? Solveris, don't. Friend.'

The wolf appeared to relax at his words, and Sam cautiously made her way forward once more. Each crackle beneath her feet sent a shudder down her spine, fearing it may suddenly abandon all restraint, and tear her to pieces before a word could leave Viriditus' mouth. But nothing transpired; no flurry of limbs, no ear splitting crack of bone, nor the indescribable pain that would undoubtedly travel up the spinal cord in the heat of a second to destroy the brain with a sensory overload.

Not even when she stooped down to retrieve the small syrette from the ground at the wolf's paws, although, Sam would have been lying if she had declared herself free of doubt in the moment. Not when the wolf in question was staring at her through those orange eyes, it's jaw splitting ever so slightly to reveal the row upon row of incisors that were held concealed behind that thin fold of flesh as she lowered her head to the same level. Somehow, despite her affection for animals, Sam was relieved that Mike had not shied away from the entire affair, and had also abandoned his position at the edge of the clearing, drawing a bead upon the creature as he advanced ever so slowly to her side.

Even if it would probably kill them both, she was glad he would cover her when the worst came to bear, as she snatched the vial up, and ran it along her fingertips. Like nearly everything upon Viriditus' person, it was of a non reflective tint of the night, though in truth it was a tremendously dark shade of grey, as opposed to the perpetual darkness that clothed the rest of the Guardsman. She gingerly took hold of the most pointed end of the instrument, and quickly turned it twice, revealing a rather thick surgical needle.

'Give it here,' Viriditus sighed, extending a hand.

'You sure?' Sam asked, 'I mean I could do it-'

'That's nice of you Sammy,' he snapped impatiently, but not in an unkindly manner, 'but I'd rather just get the damn thing over with.'

She complied, and deposited the syringe into the open gauntlet laid out before her. With a practiced motion, the Black Cloak simply seized the cylinder, breathed once, and brought it down on his shattered arm, hard. He twitched, and twisted over himself several times, trying to stifle what must have been agony, but surprisingly, nothing was emitted from that blackened helmet. No exclamations, and most of all, no curses from the rather vulgar alien they had come to know.

When his distorted voice did return, it did so in the strangest of manners; a gasp for air mid sentence, followed by another at it's full length, and if Sam were to hazard a guess, she would have decided that the helmet must have had some sealed quality to it, allowing the user to mute the audio whenever he chose. It took quite a while for Viriditus to ease himself back into the normal rhythm of respiration, and when he finally spoke, there was a haggard quality to the already deep and nearly gravelly audio.

'Damn quad,' he seemed to be mumbling.

'You ok?'

'I'll lose a limb,' Viriditus said, nearly tired in his tone, 'but I'll live.'

She extended a hand to him, but he batted it away, before he rose up, resetting the shattered limb into the usual right angle at the elbow with his functional hand as he went. Instinctively, Sam leant forward to take a closer look at the small medical kit adhered to the wolf's leg, seeking something that might have been used as a sling.

It nearly ended her own life, as the wolf sprang back, nearly taking her hand when it reached out for the matted bag, and she reflexively withdrew with all haste, shouting out that she was fine before Mike could depress the trigger.

'What the hell was that for?'

'Don't you need a sling?' She asked, still aware of the titanic wolf ahead of her. Although it had lowered its head ever so slightly in preparation to pounce, as the hind legs cocked into position like a spring, she was fully aware that the creature nearly stood as high as she. Not that it wouldn't have mattered anyway; she had forgotten the fact she was armed, and was treating the tremendous beast as anyone should; with respect, but most of all, caution.

'What the hell's a sling?'

Sam was starting to explain when she saw it. The Black Cloak's arm was simply locked in place as he strode towards her, unflinching with every sway the body it was attached to took, encased within the black carapace.

Useless as it was in protecting him in the first place, the armored suit seemed to have its purposes.

'Nothing,' she ended meekly.

'Well, then...splendid. Shall we move on?'

* * *

The overgrown wolf led the way, with a crippled Viriditus in tow, before the bulk of the small column promptly flattened whatever had been left in the pair's wake. Perhaps it would have made more sense for Mike or Chris to lead the party, considering the fact that their guardian no longer had his two hands to make use of, but then there would have been the problem with Solveris. Or at least, that was what they hoped his name was. The off chance it might have been some derogatory term of affection in the alien tongue that had become part of the common friendship between the odd pair was small, but ever present. And if such was the case, there were few doubts that the lupine would not take well to a stranger's attempt to seize the reigns, let alone his dignity.

What's more was that Viriditus never needed to call him again. Occasionally, the wolf would stray from sight: an invitation for all manner of unpleasantries on a mountain patrolled by cannibalistic demons, but he would always return a moment later, a dozen or more meters to the left or right, as he swept the trail.

'Maybe it's rude to ask,' Chris started quietly, but within earshot of the cloaked figure at the head of the column, 'but what exactly...is that?'

Viriditus did not respond.

'I mean the wolf.'

'Hey, man?' Mike called, his brow furrowing as he pushed up to the front, 'You okay?'

His hand went up to the Black Cloak's shoulder, but then he instinctively snatched it back, scanning the foremost segments of his fingers.

They were wet; coated by some ichorous, dark substance.

'Holy shit,' he cried, 'are you bleeding?'

He moved past the Guardsman, and nearly dropped the rifle he had been entrusted with. The long scars in the carapace were now indistinguishable from the rest of the plate, for they seemed to have filled themselves with that viscous fluid, which continued to run down them like the canals of Venice, following indistinguishable patterns and streaks as they inched earthwards.

'Just get me to the lodge,' Viriditus shuddered, 'I've lived through worse.'

'Chris!' Mike shouted, 'Matt, can you give me a hand-'

'I didn't ask you to shout down the blasted forest! In fact, just shut up, and we'll make it.'

It was an uncomfortable walk in silence as Mike fell back in with the rest of the column. It seemed anathema to simply leave the bleeding man, or alien, he reminded himself, to make the journey alone, but he did not yet have the nerve to defy the Guardsman's authority.

Had the situation proven different; had it been one of his friends that was wounded, he would have been able to judge what could be tackled alone; when to press his aid, and when to allow them to retain their dignity alongside their lives.

But Viriditus was a different matter. He did not even know how much it would take to the kill the Guardsman, much less judge his value of honor.

'What the hell was that?'

Ashley's warning caught them all off guard, and the collective gaze immediately shifted to the right. The pines did not help isolate the source of the movement, for amidst the illumination of the in moonlight, and upon a small rise in the trail as they were, one could peer a remarkable distance through the phalanx of tree trunks, providing no single axis upon which to track their eyes across the woods, in search of whatever else the darkness might hold.

'Where is it?' mouthed Matt, barely audible in his inquiry, 'Can you point it out?'

'No, just stay,' Mike interceded, 'stay fucking still.'

His instruction did not seem to carry to the other two boys, and neither did it influence his own hands, as they tried to level the rifles as best they could upon the most shadowed point in the foliage their eyes could find, where the mind might best construct a nightmare to haunt them, when a low whistle carried along the wind.

' _Venator? Quid sanguinum?'_

A rustle of movement ahead snapped their gazes away from the imminent danger, to find the crippled titan confronted by two of his kin, that had seemingly materialized out of the ground. The moment did not last long, and abruptly, one of the pair detached himself from the group, and made his way over to the small band Viriditus had assembled for the ascent. Instinctively, Mike and Matt; the closest to the oncoming soldier, shuffled back, only to find the movement had been echoed by the rest of their group, leaving them far closer to the stranger than most would have liked.

'You're the ones who survived this place before, aren't you?'

'Um,' Mike stuttered, considering the cut down rifle held to his chest, 'yes.'

'Then follow us. It's not much further. You're in friendly lines now.'

Somehow, friendly did not quite seem to describe the grim mountain of steel, as he trundled off once more to lift the badly damaged Guardsman ahead back onto his feet.

'I guess we're going with them, then,' said Chris to no one in particular.

'Is it just me,' Jessica babbled, 'but does anyone else feel like we're walking into a death trap again?'

'If they wanted to, they could have killed us at the entrance.'

'That's a nice thought, Chris.'

'You coming, Ashley?'

'I just can't shake this niggling feeling,' she muttered, clasping her hands together as she did so, although whether it was for cold, or simple unease, no one could tell. 'It really feels like someone's watching us.'

'Probably got a sniper or someone,' Chris said, in a mood that was far too jovial for the situation at hand, 'you know, to pop us if we run.'

'Really helpful, Chris,' Mike snorted in a futile attempt to suppress his own unease, 'come on. I don't know about these guys, but I'll take 'em over a night in the open.'

'You coming Sam?'

'Huh?' Sam looked over her shoulder, into clearly distressed eyes. Evidently, Ashley was no more eager to remain behind than Mike, but she recoiled at the empty pupils that greeted her.

'Hell, Sam. You look like you...saw a ghost.' There was no trace of humor in her statement, but at her words, a degree of colour returned to Sam's drained face.

'No,' she assured her, 'nothing. I thought I did but-'

'But?'

'Nothing. It was just a moose.'

Ashley peered into the darkness one final time, trying to ascertain what could have been perceived as a pair of antlers within the catastrophe of plant life sinking towards the ground under the weight of the snow it carried, but she called off the search within moments of commencing it. One never knew what they would find in the night, and perhaps Ashley had come to the vain hope of praying that whatever she could not see would simply return the favor, in the policy of mutual ignorance one often resorted to in a nightmare.

Once her disturbed friend had turned away though, Sam gave the night one final scan. But try as she might, she could not relocate those empty, pale eyes that had held her gaze only moments ago.


	8. Fortress

' _Mayday, mayday, does /Unknown: Heavy static/. I repeat, anyone on this frequency, respond.'_

' _Identify yourself.'_

' _Jesus, thank fucking God; we need help, right fucking now!'_

' _This is Lieutenant Liam Hamel of the Calgary Highlanders, 3rd Canadian Division. What is your location?'_

' _Um, Ember hiking lodge; the north face of Blackwood mountain. It's a small hamlet, fuck, just get someone out here right now!'_

' _Who is this?'_

' _Why the hell does that matter?'_

' _Can you clarify your situation; do you need a medical evacuation?'_

' _What? No, no, I need everything! I think we drove them off for now, but Larry's bleeding out, and Comps and Stu are dead, you hear me?'_

' _Understood, we'll send a pair of choppers out as soon as we-'_

 _/Unknown: audio disruption. Possible animal, though unclassified; no matches in audio bank./_

' _Oh fuck, they're coming again. Manning, get away from the door! Casey, take-'_

 _/End of transmission/_

 _Distress call intercepted by Canadian reserve units assigned to the Blackwood region. Helicopters currently unavailable for rescue operations; priority in international aid and requisition allocated to Operation Swift Fury. Infantry reserve team mobilised for to investigate. ETA: 0900 hours._

* * *

Sam's first thought upon reaching the lodge once more was one of untold relief. Certainly, it was where they had been hunted by a psychotic Josh, who'd nearly petrified her with his sadistic games, and an absurdly oversized syringe, but she could not help but breathe a sigh of relief upon finding it's burnt out shell amidst the trees. A glimmer of civilization, out in the wilderness.

For a moment, she wondered why she even thought of it as such. Why people would believe an odd collection of logs, stacked up in a regular order, and polished upon completion, would ever deter the scions of Mother Nature, much less the creatures even she rejected, and shunned in shadow.

But she pushed the unworthy thought aside, before she could start deteriorating into the madness of hopelessness, as she could only presume her friend had done, three months past. It would offer shelter, she told herself. It would give one a wall behind which to plant one's back when the wolves came knocking.

She stopped thinking. She had no idea how pinning one's self against a corner was supposed to help, yet it was the only thought she'd labeled logical since their arrival at the transit station.

However, her fears of trapping herself within a wooden cage for the Wendigo to ensnare were quickly dispelled, when the two Black Cloaks, who had assisted their battered brother in arms to the door, abruptly plunged into the dark, bellowing at the very top of their voices.

Admittedly, Sam truly doubted if anything could have heard the pair from beyond the small clearing that surrounded the charred ruin, but after spending the better part of her journey scanning her back, ever fearful of the pallid gaze of the condemned amongst the pines, any sound seemed akin to the sudden clash of cymbals in an empty, unpadded room.

But what was most important was that they were not alone. Voices; some gruff, others concerned, and even more simply robotic, were heard beyond the doorway, and resigning herself to the fact that sights were probably lining up upon her forehead to unleash an ounce of lead at lethal velocity if she were to even remotely take an interest in the track at her back, she trudged on, passing under the crumbling doorway.

The sight that met her, however, was not one she had anticipated. Visiting her lone case of arson once more, Sam had expected, for the most part, a dilapidated ruin that had all but caved in upon itself under the constant mountain winds. Or even worse, one of those pale creatures, hanging from that strange ball of metal, which Josh's father had considered art, it's eyes tracking her quivering movements, before it would explode into that unyielding frenzy for blood, and flesh.

She had not expected a war camp.

The furniture was gone, though she was uncertain if that was a result of the fire, or if it had simply been hauled into the woods to decay as nature had intended. But no space seemed to have proven devoid of purpose. Large steel crates had been piled up along the walls that flanked the central room; a web of wires crept along the floor, snaking between her legs as she progressed deeper into the moonlit interior. A ways off to the side, she caught a strange fluorescence, and through the small space permitted by a parted door, Sam managed to make out another of those soldiers, hunched over what appeared to be a highly armored laptop, as he signalled someone else, concealed by the doorframe angles, to his console, waving and gesticulating indiscriminately at the screen.

A soft creak overhead snapped her gaze upwards, before she quickly averted them down to ground level once, having found at least three sets of scarlet lenses staring back at her from the upper floor, each tracking, assessing them for a threat.

The trio of cloaked figures who had escorted them to the lodge were engaged in a swift conversation with another band of their brethren. Several limbs were waved about in punctuation of whatever thought might have held the meeting's course; more than a few words were delivered at a volume hardly compliant with the silence that seemed to have trapped the lodge in an odd state of timeless stasis since the blast, but in the end, an agreement seemed to have been reached, as Viriditus was promptly deposited into a pair of waiting arms, and taken away from their sight.

Or at least, her sight, considering the fact it was suddenly occupied entirely by another of those black masks, having materialised inexplicably meters away.

'Leave your weapons here.' He grunted. 'The Fieldmaster wants to see you.'

There was a moment where protest might have been held, but after swiftly considering their situation, the friends decided against such an intrepid exploration of inevitable mayhem. Subsequently, they soon found themselves headed down the cold stairs to the basement; the same ones upon which Sam had nearly forgotten her disapproval for violence when she'd been tempted to guarantee some rather vindictive fates for Chris, after he had terrified her with that absurd monk outfit. Indeed, she spared more than one glance over her shoulder, to ensure he was still in the line, and she could rest easy in regard to his antics. It took her mind off the worser horrors that dwelt beyond the stone walls.

* * *

The office they were taken to resided directly was a familiar place; namely the boiler room beneath the lodge, although any semblance to that of a boiler room had died with the explosion three months past. The walls were darkened by soot where the fire had raged, and the large metallic construct that had been shoveled beside the wine caskets had seemingly torn itself apart in the heat, reducing the room to cinders in the process.

Now, in the corner of the small, which Ashley and Chris both seemed hesitant to approach, perhaps out of fear that a mannequin or a doll might suddenly come to life with bloodshot eyes peering into their sins; a steel table had been drawn up; one that continued to emit that dull blue light from it's surface, flickering ever so slightly with each passing moment. It surrounded by at least half a dozen of the grim faced sentinels, as they conversed in quiet tones, before one of them turned about, recognising their arrival.

Immediately, the light disappeared, and five of the figures, including the one who had registered their coming, dispersed within moments, though they did not in fact leave the room; simply shuffling away to a respectable distance. Their escort also peeled away at this maneuver, leaving the six friends alone, for the most part, with what could only be described as a disappointment.

'Ultimus, Praetorius. Seventh Company of the Fifty Ninth Regiment.'

His name confirmed, Praetorius somehow left a great deal to be desired by the onlooker. He still wore the same blackened plate as his brothers above the burnt out cellar, but he was, lanky. Taller than any of those stern faced soldiers but somehow it only detracted from his figure, for he was too much so. His limbs were nearly the same girth as Mike's, even with the steel plate that encapsulated him, and compared to Viriditus, who had stood up to a bear and somehow survived to tell the tale, there was a near frailty to the Fieldmaster when one sought the comparison. His shoulder pauldrons seemed too small for his figure, as if he had failed to fit the standard regulation worn by his fellow Guardsmen, and had to cope with a size designed for something of another species entirely. And the plate was newer than Viriditus'; unscarred, nearly. The only item upon his being that was indeed marked by any hardship was the cloak itself; Sam had never seen a more battered piece of clothing. Not even amongst her eccentric grandmother's collections was there a piece of linen that had been so wronged. It was torn in at least a dozen places; stained by substances that could have been mistaken for mud, had they not born a crimson hue, and she even spotted several blades of grass, still nestled within the creased folds and cuts that marked the distinctive fabric.

'Um,' she heard Mike stammer, 'Michael Munroe.'

'Sam-' Her own announcement was cut off by a sharp wave.

'Save your breath,' he said, in a tone that did not invite any further introductions, 'before I want know you, you need to convince me to.'

'To what?'

'Convince me of your use.'

'Well,' Mike began unthinkingly, 'they're called Wendigos.'

'So we'll be playing with all our cards on the table?

Mike promptly ceased his open thought.

'I admire that you'll be so willing to sell the secrets of this hulk of stone,' the grizzled voice droned on, 'but the simple fact is, you must understand, in my experience, there is no charity on this planet. There is always an incentive; a motive; anything but, Great Father forbid, for the greater good of the species. So, human, I begin again. Convince me you're here to help us kill these bastards. Convince me that I don't need one eye looking out for betrayal.'

'And if we can't?' Mike regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. It was a fair attempt to stall for time, but truth be told, it only seemed to crystalise what they were already dreading.

'Then I'll find someone who can, once I bury you under this festering pile of sawdust. Now, before I get frustrated, tell me why you're here.'

'We came for Josh,' Sam took up the banner from a much relieved Mike, 'your man told us he was still up here.'

'A fabrication, perhaps?'

Sam gave him a hard look, weighed the risk, and swallowed her principles. It was their only hope.

'Bullshit. He's up here, and you know it. And he's our friend. Did you think we'd just leave him to rot up here?'

'You did with the last one, did you not? Or should I say two?'

Sam was silent.

'Regretful, are we? Perhaps it is a skewed sense of redemption at the end of your road, girl? The knowledge of your past failures weighing upon the hands that shall, in your mind, somehow repair the rift between you and the Almighty when Judgement comes.'

'Stop it.'

'The chance to save one, where you condemned another.'

'Stop it!'

They were silent. No one moved; not Praetorius, who sat coolly under Sam's vehement gaze, nor her friends, who were unwilling to move themselves into the line of persecution, even though his every word inflamed the consciousness at their hearts. Hannah and Beth were still there, even after fifteen months; the same, twisted but somehow undeniable course of logic that if they had simply restrained the pleasure of sadism for another occasion, two lives might have lived to see the dawn. The same logic that had warped Josh's mind to a path of his own self destruction.

And it was anathema to Sam's ears. Hannah had haunted her long before her return to the mountain three months past. The knowledge that she had walked sober, while her best friend had stepped lightly, both in step and in mind, to her doom, was easily one of the most destructive forces she had ever encountered in life thus far. More so than Josh's antics; more so than the Wendigo. It was that dreadful minute, where she had paced about her room in contemplation, cursing herself for failing to talk them out of the horrid plan when she could have spent it warning her friend. It remained to be seen if that might have proven the best course of action. Somehow, informing a friend that their idol was planning to humiliate them in front of an entire crowd went against human logic, for it did not seem to accomplish much more than simple neutrality. In all likelihood, Hannah would have brushed it off as another of Sam's 'cruel' attempts to break her obsession with Mike before he could truly hurt her. She would have either ignored her friend, and perished as fate had seemingly dictated, or she would have walked away, disgusted by the constructions of an ally, and still engaged in an unreciprocated fascination.

At least it might have finally allowed her to see Mike's true colours.

But Sam had never allowed herself to defend her actions for too long. Soon, the guilt of every other present had abated her mind, and it was occupied entirely by the what-ifs that tormented her day by day. What if she had barged in only moments earlier? Or simply put her foot down to the group amid their drunken idiocy?

And now that the shadow before her was crystallizing her own demons, she wondered if she had finally snapped, and if the cloaked Praetorius was only a figment of the degrading mind, as he spread his hands in the least sincere fashion.

'I can work with that.'

* * *

'What do you make of him?'

'Cheary,' Chris answered, dropping the scorched blind slat he'd been holding slightly higher than gravity would have permitted, as he edged away from the window to join the rest of the small squadron, 'for someone who spends his spare time killing people.'

'Way to get depressed on the first day out here,' Matt sighed, eying the small lantern in their midst with no small degree of resignation to the task at hand.

They had told Praetorius the essentials he needed to know for the immediate moment; the Wendigos' nocturnal habits, the means of their replication, and the necessity to keep them alive. Chris had proven most instrumental, as he stressed time and time again the necessity to remain entirely still when one did not have immediate access to a working flamethrower, and several tanks of gasoline.

Sadly, Praetorius seemed to have entirely exhausted his supplies of both necessities, though the circumstances which surrounded their disappearance remained a clouded affair, that would not be touched upon any further by the anointed Fieldmaster. But a soldier seemed to have it's perks, for they had escorted away only a moment before he had already begun to rattle off a string of new instruments to be attached to the next requisition order, though their contents would forever remain a mystery to unattuned ears, for the Fieldmaster had switched to his native dialect fairly early into his new instruction.

As for the need to keep the Wendigos alive, however, Praetorius had reacted with only passing surprise. Unlike the expected disbelief one might have encountered if they were to tell a soldier that the finest course of action was to avoid exterminating a natural killing machine that would by no means resort to the same restraint when it came to consuming their corpses, Praetorius had merely grunted, before descending into a low mumble of self consultation before inquiring upon the weaknesses of the creatures, though it was clear to say he nonetheless despised that little detail.

That said, no one was particularly enthused when they had been deposited into the grudging arms of one Erebus Ambulemus, escorted to a room on the burnt out first floor that ran the flank of the structure, and thrown a couple of blankets to supplement their 'quarters', although the rough conditions were the least of their issues. Somehow, the collective suffering of old friends would dampen the cold, at least in the mind.

The window, on the other hand, was proving less than desirable.

'You want to take over, someone?' Chris asked, as he settled down beside the low fire they had for warmth.

Of course, when Sam had destroyed the lodge, the heating and cooling elements of the Washington Estate had all but vanished in the flash of light. That, and Praetorius' apparent paranoia in regards to 'light discipline', had restricted them to the solitary lantern for comfort. Other comforts were also limited; food was supplied from an unearthly store of strange substances, though their taste was palpable, until Sam discovered, with moments to spare, that the strange concoction of nutrients did in fact contain meat. Namely, some exotic, deer-like creature from the wild wastes of a planet only identified as Lementus, who had the misfortune to have the very word 'prey' woven into their names. But Sam's ethics had not wavered in regards to the Praedus, and for a while, she had volunteered to simply go without, until Ambulemus had thrown the door open, with a sizable pack of foraged seeds and roots clasped beneath one hand. It was only after her meal that Sam had discovered the Guardsman had in fact been conducting his own experiment in the flora of Earth, in locating sustainable means of keeping his brothers alive. Unfortunately, that firstly involved testing the toxicity of the plants in question.

It was only by miracle's hand alone that he had passed over the unwelcoming inhabitants of the undergrowth, and after Sam had kept aside a few samples to remind herself of which substances could be consumed without tremendous impact upon her livelihood, they had simply clustered about the soft light, conversing in lowered volumes. Or at least, five of them did. The last was posted beside the shrouded window, although their purpose was unclear. Whether they existed to warn the small company garrisoned within the broken ruin of movement along the perimeter, or simply to silence their friends when danger drew near, or worse, to provide the first line of defense, no one knew. The last outcome was doubtful at best, if not entirely absurd, since Praetorius had not seen too lightly to a band of jumpy teenagers, of an opposing species noless, trumpeting about his abode with weapons that, in all probability, posed a greater threat to themselves, and by extension, their hosts, or kidnappers, compared to the gaunt spirits that called the mountain their home.

But then again, memory of Viriditus' horrific attempt to wrestle with a bear had not faded, and it had been wondered more than once if it would be expected of them to throw themselves; fist, nail, head and brain to boot, at the malignant demons when they came knocking.

'Seems like psychos are aplenty up here,' Mike observed carelessly, 'seriously; I wasn't just seeing things right? The guy charged a bear?'

'You saw what I saw,' Matt conceded as he rose to take his turn at the solitary observation port, 'but I say these guys are bad news.'

'Yeah,' Jessica affirmed, 'if you want to count the bit about kidnapping us for another night on this stupid mountain.'

'Well, we're still alive, aren't we?'

'So?'

'So,' Ashley continued in a hopeful tone, 'they need us.'

'For now,' Jessica sighed in resignation, before she realised who she was speaking to. 'I mean, yeah, sure, they could have offered us a lot of times earlier.'

Her recovery was flawed, certainly, but no one was willing to bring it under scrutiny once again. It was a vague hope everyone held onto.

Everyone save Mike, that was.

'You know what,' he began abruptly, 'no. It doesn't have to be like this-'

'Mike.'

'-no, hear me out; they need us. We all agreed on that. And that's the only reason they have to keep us alive.'

'So what's your point?'

'We can be the only source of information on the Wendigo,' he explained, his eyes narrowing as his thoughts began to amass themselves into a single being, 'otherwise, we're just a liability-'

'Mike?' Mike registered Sam's warning gaze, and quickly nodded his understanding, suitably chastised in the process, much to the relief of all those present. Somehow, the very verbal exclamation of a thought, even if it was shared by every mind in the immediate vicinity, seemed to be inherently tethered to the ill wishes of fate's ledger.

'Oh. Right. Sorry, Ash.'

'Aw, hell, would everyone just stop tiptoeing around me? How many times do I need to say it? I'm fine.'

There was a mumbled agreement lacking all substance, but it seemed to appease Ashley for the time being, at least.

'Look,' Mike continued, this time with far greater caution given to his words, 'our best chance of surviving this is actually being of use. If we can't give them anything, I don't want to be around to figure out what'll happen next.'

'I don't think they'll congratulate you,' Chris admitted with a wry grin that failed to attain a response. 'So basically, try not to get them to break out the cattle prod when they're asking us about what's going to maul us in our sleep.'

'There's more,' Mike went on. 'The journal.'

Chris was suddenly very quiet. They all were, for that fact. It had only been by blind luck that he had collected the last belonging of the strange man who had saved him upon the windswept mountainside three months past, when the Wendigos had finally torn down the doorway connecting the Sanitorium to the Lodge, and since the madness, it had only breathed the air once, amid Chris' attempts to decipher the hermit's past, in the hopes there might be another that could have told him more of the watchful pariah. But dread. memory and an empty search had returned it to an unused corner of his house, until he had agreed to accompany his friends upon the half-baked expedition to the heart of their sins, and found little argument to oppose the company of the tattered journal.

And it alone held more knowledge upon the threat than they would ever know.

'They can't find. They find it, and our use here is done.'

'You're saying we-' Sam could not bring herself to finish the suggestion. It seemed to oppose every tenet of human decency ingrained within respect for the departed. And yet, it was only the only choice.

'Burn it. We learn everything we can, and tomorrow, we burn it.'

* * *

' _I'm going to give you ten seconds.'_

 _She tried to run but her efforts were confined. She tore at the restraints above her head to no avail. Beside her, Josh howled at the darkness, hurling the polluted contents of his mind for the detriment of all those who would visit the broken soul._

' _Nine.'_

 _Something, somewhere in the shroud beyond them, began its mechanical wail, battling past rusted joints and hinges._

' _Eight. Make your choice, Sam.'_

 _She broke her ideals and unleashed a torrent of obscenities at the psychopath._

' _Seven.'_

 _He was there; looming in the gloom; his face obscured by that insidious ghoulish mask. In his hand, he held a loose collection of mattered orbs, though she did not dare to identify the faces that stared back at her from below his palm; their cold eyes empty and devoid of all sensation._

 _In the other, he held the switch._

' _Fine! Me!' she screamed as her voice cracked, 'Do it, you sick fuck!'_

 _The spectre cocked it's head to the side._

' _Of course. It shall always be me.'_

 _She screeched as Josh's blood drenched her side in an explosive combustion of flesh and sinew. Her eyes clenched shut, and she begged for the nightmare to end. For some reason, Josh never quite appeared without the madman. And as always, he would fall beneath the demon's blade._

' _Does the bird know her sins?'_

 _She could only whimper._

' _Does she know the cost of repentance?'_

 _Slowly, she opened her eyes. Her vision was filled only by an unending line of teeth. Not that of a human's, nor even of a creature; only the perversion of the Devil himself, as those glistening eyes stared back into her own._

 _The last image sown into her tortured mind before that row of disfigured incisors tore into her neck was the peculiar sigil branded into the creature's arm. A black butterfly at the apex of it's flight, before it disappeared amidst the fountain of red, and the Wendigo began it's dreadful feast._

* * *

Sam awoke screaming.

At least, it would have been the intended, reflexive reaction to the terrors of the sub-conscience had she not immediately faced a more imminent peril: a pair of unreflective scarlet lenses barely a foot from her own as she jerked upright, immediately before a raven daubed gauntlet was clamped over her mouth, killing her alarm before he moved a single finger across the armored grate that she could only presume to house his mouth, in the unmistakable instruction for silence.

It took her a moment to register the impromptu order, and it was only when her heartbeat had settled back into a healthy rhythm that she realised the importance of silence upon the mountain. Evidently, the Black Cloak knew it as well as she, for he did not remove the iron seal from her lips for a good moment, until he had retained her gaze a second time, and confirmed that the command had been taken to heart.

Quietly, he made his way over to the window, distaste clearly marked in his tone as he peeled Jessica, who had finally succumb to allur of rest, away from the window, before producing a rifle from beneath the cloak at his back.

Like every other facet of the warrior, there was no proud shine upon its appearance, and if she had not seen the barrel and stock extend from rectangular frame produced, she would have never known it to exist as he brought it to bear upon the howling woods with a single hand.

The other tugged at the fabric collected beside his neck, and as the cloak rose to accommodate his wishes without reducing the length to which it extended groundwards, Sam realised there was in fact a cowl placed atop the unmistakable cloak that defined a Guardsman. The cloth slipped over the black plate with ease, and fell over those scarlet lenses, until all that remained to an onlooker in the woods would have been a darkened muzzle and sight, with a red eye watching unceasingly.

Despite herself, Sam could not contain her need to know, and blurted the inevitable question.

'What is it?' she asked as quietly as she could. In fact, it was at such an indiscernible volume that she was certain the marksman could not have heard her, and she was on the verge of repeating the inquiry when another voice responded, barely a meter from her back.

'Motion spines picked up a contact,' a distorted voice answered.

Sam, having just awoken from another dream of torment by Josh's twisted avatar, nearly jumped out of her skin at the near replica of the madman's voice. In her panic, she did not see Ashley before she had unintentionally pressed a hand into her friend's side, hoping for some support to recover upon when she felt the warm flesh beneath her grasp.

The result was less than satisfactory, as Ashley's eyes sprung open, half expecting a Wendigo to be leering over her in sadistic triumph. The sudden rigidity that seized her form entirely was clearly felt by Chris, who had fallen asleep at her side with an arm draped over her in consultation, before the moment of terror had coursed through her like an electric current, and into his own form.

Fairly soon, either by abrupt physical contact or the ruckus of the general awakening, everyone present had been stirred from slumber, much to the frustration of the titans that surrounded them. That is to say, three titans, and an overgrown wolf.

While one of their number policed the group aside to a convenient corner that would provide an ample buffet for any demonic cannibal should it come knocking, the other two, including the first to have arrived, continued to watch the window; their weapons held loosely but with unending caution as they scanned the darkness beyond the wall. And at their backs, the wolf settled itself into the corner that opposed the band of survivors; leaving the doorway to the rest of the fort unobstructed if the two hunters at the window were suddenly overcome by the incessant need to withdraw, though if that was indeed the situation to pass, Sam had little doubt that their own exfiltration would be less than ideal. Somehow, six teenages scrambling for an exit that they would have to take a ninety degree turn to utilise did not evoke any indication of a smooth retreat.

'Contact closing,' their guard whispered, consulting a panel on his wrist, as he joined his brothers in taking aim upon the entryway, 'one hundred meters.'

He received no reply. Even the wolf was silent as the predator beyond the walls approached. Unlike the stranger's equivalent of 'company' in a certain decommissioned sanitorium, it did not appear to present any means of alerting it's masters to the peril, and for a moment, an inextinguishable sensation of doubt tore at Mike's gut. The wolf present seemed entirely inept compared to the one that had guided him through the lair of the monsters before it had given it's own life for his own; another weight of guilt upon his conscience for that matter, though why he classified a wolf he had known for barely a few hours perhaps as highly as his friends that had disappeared in the culmination of his sins was beyond him. Perhaps he had done too much; that the mind could only identify the wrongs of his hands

But then he saw the creature settle into the familiar coil of muscle instinct for blood. He saw the killer emerge to surface of the golden irises, and he realised he was faced by no guard dog.

For guard dogs are trained to intimidate alone, and to maim and kill should the intruder in question progress too far. But this creature; this one cared not boundaries. It invited its prey, to the same inevitable outcome.

'Fifty meters. Visual acquisition should be any second.'

'Look,' Sam whispered, 'just stay still; they can only see by sight.'

'And I'm sure they can hear just as well,' the Guardsman returned at an equal volume, 'now shut it!'

Two more minutes passed. Suddenly, the lead marksmen in the room tensed; a minute and action unobservable from beyond the blinds, but with nothing more to look upon save the window that occupied the adjacent space to the spectres, the six friends were already focused intently upon the cloaked figures when they made their minute adjustment.

Something was outside. Something far more than just a deer.

Then, the wood produced that awful creak, as something of significant weight latched onto its frame with careful precision, but not enough so that it's arrival went entirely unnoticed.

And then it happened.

Through the veil of thin strips of scorched wood, the window was filled by teeth. Jagged, unordered and decayed.

It was impossible to remain still. It was so much easier when the threat had already been identified, in retrospect at least, for maintaining the statue's vigil is never an easy task, particularly with a craven hunter directly at one's side. But the sudden leap jolted more than a few, and even through the shuttered window, those empty eyes turned upon them with a vengeance.

It did not even register the two Guardsmen barely centimeters away, as their fingers remained unnaturally steady for such a situation, though perhaps it was due to the fact neither had deigned to remove the said digits from the trigger of their respective firearms. In the far corner, the wolf emitted a low growl, but otherwise retained it's post, unflinching as those eyes, drawn into that eternal stare by the skin drawn taut by skeletal design of damnation, passed over it entirely, the momentary movement to it's right forgotten.

Then it began it's dreadful wail.

That bestial screech that could only be achieved with the final corruption of the human spirit; the banshee's wail that had haunted so many of their nightmares.

And then it was gone.

Without any ceremony or courtesy, it simply disappeared. Beyond the wall, there was a sudden outburst of commotion; the thunder of hooves, followed by a creature's wrenching fear, and then the triumph of a hunter.

It would be another five minutes before the Guardsmen finally signalled the all clear. By then, the Wendigo was gone, leaving nothing but a horrific orgy of blood encrusted snow, maybe ten meters from the cabin's front door, and a thinner trail of the same ichorous substance leading into the darkness.

In the morning, they would learn that Praetorius, although he had yet to speak with the supposed experts on the creatures of the night, had already acquired a number of deer prior to their arrival, that had been housed in the residence's basement, to be used in the event live bait was required to lead a hungry predator from the command post without a shot being fired. But the callous act was lost on most of the teenagers, who had been unable for find any solace for the remainder of the evening.

It would have been impossible after Chris had shakily relayed what his eyes had discerned from the terrifying encounter; what each of their eyes had in fact identified, but either doubted or simply feared to so great an extent no other would acknowledge was the case until it was finally addressed by another. The unspoken familiarity in the damned creature's features; the ever so slightly crooked nose; the slightest tufts of brown fur emerging from the otherwise gaunt scalp, and the tattered remains of a denim jumpsuit draped over the twisted and corrupted frame.

The night wore on, and with it, the lengthening of the shadows, as the moon fell from it's precipice, and plunged the woods into darkness once again, before the final shards of sunlight stabbed into the heart of the night, and brought an end to the hunt of the Wendigo.

* * *

Author's note: Thanks for all the support so far guys! Please note; as things go on, I might change the rating to M, depending on how the violence turns out. Next chapter; the hunt begins.


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